A Meeting of Magics
by Lady Berenice
Summary: FINISHED AT LAST! The end of the 'Kalasin' trilogy, following 'Kalasin's Betrothal' and 'Queen Kalasin'. The life, love and adventures of Queen Kalasin of Sarain. AU since the release of 'Trickster's Choice'
1. First Impressions

A Meeting of Magics

_Disclaimer: Tortall and all its associated characters, powers, settings, histories, and everything else belong to Tamora Pierce. Gwynedd, Deryni, all associated characters, settings, histories and everything else belong to Katherine Kurtz. In using them I am not gaining any financial benefit, but rather just procrastinating when I should be studying.___

_Note: It's been a while since I read 'King Kelson's Bride', so some details that pertain to that might not be strictly accurate.___

_Another Note: As some people might already have realised, the geography of Tortall and Gwynedd aren't terribly compatible. Both are located on a quasi-European landmass, with ocean to the west, an inland sea and desert to the south and a mysterious landmass to the East, which in 'Kalasin's betrothal' and 'Queen Kalasin' I claimed for the Empire. However, for the story to work, I hope that everyone will ignore the finer details of the maps so kindly provided by Ms Pierce and Ms Kurtz. For the purposes of this story, Tralia, Torenth, and Arjenol share common borders with Sarain, and the Empire, with the other countries in both worlds slotting in as best they can. It sort of works if you rotate one of the maps, so completely stuffing up oceans, mountain ranges, climatic conditions, and completely contradicting my previous description of the Empire as an enormous landmass that reaches from the Roof to Jindazhen. Sincere apologies to everyone offended or confused, and any characters that might have been inconvenienced or evicted due to this story._   
  
  


First Impressions 

Queen Kalasin of Sarain entered the nursery to see her infant daughter laughing uproariously while trying to pull the tail of a wolf the size of a not-very-small pony. 

Kalasin frowned. "Yevgen, would you please not do that around Lillias quite yet?" she asked in a slightly irritated manner. 

Lillias Haumaranté, heiress-presumptive of the Throne of Sarain, reached out her little hand to grasp the wagging tail, then burst into tears as the tail vanished into thin air, and the wolf metamorphosed into a rather handsome man in his early twenties. Kalasin's husband then swung their daughter into the air before depositing her into her crib. 

"What's the harm?" he asked. "Better she know that shape-shifting is possible before she gives herself a shock the way I did." At Kalasin's questioning look, he continued, "I'm told that at the age of two, I burped and turned into a kitten. Sent the nursery staff into hysterics, I'm told. Especially when Kay decided to copy me and then they couldn't convince us to turn back" 

While the King of Sarain had restrained himself from the more dramatic skills of his Talent in the first two years of their marriage, the discovery that their daughter had indeed managed to inherit both her parents' magical heritages had made him less reluctant to demonstrate, especially around little Lillias. 

"The letter we were expecting from Radanae about Kelson Haldane of Gwynedd just came in," Kalasin held out a rather bulky sheaf of papers. 

"Good," Yevgen walked over. "I've been rather curious about our contemporary since Ris sent that trade delegation for initial approaches to him. What does Radanae say about him?" 

"Nothing terribly complementary," Kally informed him. "She starts off with 'excessively inbred' and it all goes downhill from there. He's had a fairly dire personal life though, Kally observed, watching as Yevgen quickly scanned the close-written script. " Father – died when fourteen, leaving him to ascend the throne. Fourteen must be their majority. Mother – thought he was cursed. Wonderful. And I thought _my_ parents were hard to get along with sometimes." 

Yevgen looked up from his reading with an amused lilt at the corner of his mouth as she continued. 

"First wife – he married at seventeen, she was fourteen – murdered by her brother three minutes after they took their vows. _Right_… Second wife, married last year – his half-first cousin once removed…" she saw Yevgen shudder slightly. As an Imperial Prince, he still retained his peoples' high distaste for inbreeding. "Died a few months ago giving birth to twin boys – Richard and Brion – and no, neither of them appear to have extra limbs, Yevgen, you don't have to ask about that." 

"Both boys are reported alive and reasonably healthy despite that, I notice. Interesting. They probably have a high mortality rate…" 

"Pardon?" Kally interjected, not knowing what he was getting at. 

"Well, the succession in Gwynedd appears to be primogeniture. I would think that twin boys would create all sorts of unwanted confusion and unpleasantness – particularly if they were identical – which the 'Danae hasn't bothered to tell us." 

Kally noticed that he assumed that it was his friend who neglected to inform them of the detail rather than the Imperial Diplomatic Service not knowing the facts. 

"That would create problems," she agreed. 

"That's why there are so few twin girls recorded in my family," Yevgen observed absently, lowering the papers. "Twin boys, one of each, is fine, but usually with twin girls, one gets killed at birth. That's the original reasoning behind having the Consort present at the birth – he had to chose which one. Anyway," he swiftly changed the subject and returned to the letter. 

" Let's see – once executed a first cousin for treason – _lovely family there_ – almost as bad as mine, at least we don't behead ours in public - and, that's interesting – apparently he was once engaged to that first cousin's wife, then Kelson went and got himself washed down a cliff and so assumed dead, so she went and married his cousin a few days later. She had a son with the cousin and is now in a religious order." 

"She sounds devoted…" Kalasin muttered sarcastically. Perhaps it was unfair of her, but she was very sure that if her fiancé ever got washed off a cliff she would wait a few months before marrying anyone else. "All in all, a very confused young man," she summarised. 

"That's about right." Yevgen agreed, putting the stack of papers down. "By the way, do you want to know why it's been over two centuries since we've had relations with them?" 

"Because they're strange?" 

"That too. Two hundred years ago, they had magic outlawed as being against their religion and went around burning anyone who could so much as light a candle, figuratively speaking. Our envoys only just got out in time." 

"Then why does Ris want to re-establish relations?" 

"Wel,l the restrictions are lifted now – for the very good reason that our friend Kelson isn't a bad hand with the old lightning-bolts." 

Only Lillias's curious gaze prevented Kally from making a very rude noise.   
  
  


Morgan was re-reading the letters of greeting and tentative trade proposals when Kelson came in. As was now his habit, the King of Gwynedd was all in black, in mourning for his Queen. His face was calm, the grey eyes level, but Morgan knew of the pain so carefully concealed. Pain that was far more than any man, let alone one of twenty-two should have to bear. Sometimes he wondered how Kelson could bear it. For a little while, Morgan had thought Araxie would help with the burden – and she had – and those few short months that she had been Queen were those when he had seen Kelson the happiest in all his eight years as King. But for those few short months only – the joy of the twins so swiftly and surely shrouded by her death. With only another anxious glance at his King before they both sat down, Morgan returned to the papers. 

The proposals had been a surprise, to be sure. While Liam's people had retained links with the large, powerful Empire to their south for countless generations, most of their trade of low level, and mainly in luxuries – spices, silks, jewels and furs. Certainly there was no exchange of ambassadors, no carefully crafted letters such as this. 

"Why now?" Kelson's voice rang clear in the silence of the library. 

"I have no idea," Morgan confessed. "The last time we had formal relations was two hundred years ago. They have a long tradition of magic, and felt a little uneasy in Gwynedd." 

Kelson gave a harsh laugh at that. "Do we know much about them? Neither the messenger nor his guards were Deryni – but that proves nothing – especially when someone has constructed perfect shields around them all." 

"Richenda told me once that there was a family in R'Kassi – only very distant kin of hers – who send their daughters to school in the Empire. A fulfilment of a vow of some sort. I wish I could remember. It's a pity she's not here." 

"Yes." Kelson's voice trailed off, and Morgan knew he was thinking about the woman – girl, really - the mother of his sons – who had been his Queen so briefly, who now slept eternally beside another girl who had been his Queen for an even briefer time. "They appear to specify dealings through Sarain quite explicitly. Any reason why?" 

"Sarain, or, at least Greater Sarain does possess all the major passes and the vast majority of the frontier," Morgan unfolded a map. The portion that represented Sarain and the Empire, to east and south of Gwynedd, was disappointingly blank of clear landmarks. 

"Aren't they in civil war? Why would they take the time to send out letters?" 

"Not anymore. About three years ago, my sources tell me that Empress Vanaria annexed Sarain with very little effort." 

"Empress?" 

'Empress." Morgan confirmed. "They're using Sarain very much as a trading post between the Empire proper and lands further west and south – Tortall, Maren, Tyra, Cathak – we haven't had relations with them for several hundred years either, Sire, if then. She probably thinks that it would be easier to consolidate all her trading in one place. Cuts down on paperwork." 

"How many 'sources' do you have there, Morgan?" Kelson asked, curious. 

His Champion made a face. "Not so many as I would like. They have a formidable counter-intelligence service – most of my agents have ended up in an alleyway with a foot or so of steel in inconvenient places. Most of my informants, sad to say, are freelancers, so the information is unreliable. Matyas may know more about them than I, though. I don't know very much more than the blindingly obvious." 

"Which is?" 

"Very little." He took out a short list, but didn't glance down at it once. "The current rulers are King Yevgen and Queen Kalasin. The King is Empress Vanaria's son, and the current Empress's younger brother. The current Empress is named Rislyn. The Queen is the daughter of the King of Tortall – a largish country to their west, and the granddaughter of the last legitimate ruler of Sarain. They're co-rulers, not monarch and consort, and have equal authority. Both are in their early twenties, and have a daughter about the same age as the twins." He paused. "Queen Kalasin is a noted Healer. With a capital 'H'." 

A moment of silence. 

"Do you think they're Deryni?" Kelson asked. 

"You're asking _me_?" Morgan was incredulous. "I don't even know if _I'm_ really Deryni. But whatever they are Sire, they don't call them Deryni. They call them mages."   
  
  
  
  



	2. A Bet Either Way

A Bet either Way

Radanae Gavrillian of the Imperial Diplomatic Service would have scoffed at the scene. The low lighting, the dark floors, walls, and ceiling, the dark velvet drapes, the high raised altar with ominous looking grooves, the large, glowing globe on its pillar behind the altar – it all made for a set right out of the sort of theatre production that she would never admit to knowing about, much less attend. But even the young knight, now enjoying the hectic social whirl of the capital's diplomatic set, knew that whether it was performed in a minimalist, hygienic, tastefully appointed little studio, or this garish parody of an ancient dark temple, the blood rites of necromancy gave the same effect. 

The drugged, listless victim – a drug addict and beggar, not likely to be missed. Rows of hooded figures, not a few of them drugged-out former scions of noble Houses, thrown out of the Academy for various reasons, and excluded from the House rolls because they had never attained knighthood. A robed silhouette at the altar, holding a knife made of obsidian over the barely lucid body on the stone altar. All the dramatics were hardly necessary, of course. The forces that fed on malevolent blood magic were hardly fussy about etiquette, after all. All one really needed was blood, preferably shed in terror and pain. 

It ran down the strategically placed groves into a large obsidian bowl as the beggar on the altar twitched and let out a soundless scream. 

It got on one of the kneeling figures' robes.   
  


Sir Percivan was a rare breed, a male knight in the Imperial Diplomatic Service with no obvious injury or infirmity to prevent him from taking on the more martial duties of his rank. Though he could swing a sword and wield a lance as well as any, he was a scholar at heart, and took his greatest joys in studying the customs and histories of the Empire's neighbours. 

Thus, he was perfect to lead the modest delegation that travelled from Bersone to Rhemuth, capital of Gwynedd. It was not a particularly remarkable embassage, barely more than simply delivering a few letters written by a clerk and absently signed by the Empress (or as absently as she ever did anything), and then tarrying in Rhemuth no longer than was strictly necessary to rest their horses and for a few of the younger ones to see the sights and buy useless trinkets. No mage, he nonetheless insisted that both he and the rest of the party were securely shielded from 'extra-ordinary' probes. 

While the abilities of the Deryni were not exactly the same as the Gifted or the Talented, they nonetheless were sufficiently similar to warrant such protections. His particular interest was in such 'extra-ordinary' talents, and he had leapt at the opportunity to lead this embassy. So, after assigning several suitably awful essay topics for his students at the Academy and the Imperial University, he had merrily packed his bags and pulled the other members of his party from their other assignments without so much as a by-your-leave. 

As far as his research went, the people of Gwynedd and the surrounding lands believed that such abilities were not, as nearly all other known cultures believed, simply odd talents that certain humans had, but rather, unique to a particular racial group, not quite human. Percivan could see the logic in such reasoning, unlike most Imperials who would have muttered something scornful about hide-bound provincials. Like the Gift and Talents, the abilities of the people of Gwynedd called those of the 'Deryni', were inherited, which lead to the slaughter of whole families in times when the Deryni were hated and feared. 

Percivan knew that Rislyn saw such distaste for the Deryni in their native lands as much to her advantage. Even with alliance to the Eastern and Southern lands to their west, the present Empire did not have nearly so many mages as she would like. If the people of Gwynedd eliminated theirs, so much the better. Percivan shook his head at his old pupil. She made a good Empress, he knew that, but sometimes her streak of ruthless practicality left him speechless. 

There had been very little contact with Gwynedd for over two centuries – when a despotic line that happened to be Deryni had been overthrown, and the state Church had declared Deryni to be evil. The Imperial Envoy at the time had not wanted to stay around and explain the difference between Deryni abilities and the Gift, so he simply closed up the embassy, taken all the staff, and returned to the Empire, where he retired and bred champion racehorses. 

Now, of course, things were different. The Church had reversed its declarations on the Deryni, and lifted restrictions on their legal status. Percivan, though he disliked politics, was realistic enough to conclude that King Kelson played not a small part in the proceedings. The abilities he claimed were part of his 'divine right' as King sounded suspiciously like the Elementary Magic 101 syllabus at the Knights' Academy (a very easy six credit points for those who could take it), and his mother, Queen Jehana, was reported to be Deryni, as were his closest advisors. 

"Stale rushes on the floors, no plumbing, no central heating, no lights, no glass windows, no concept of good manners…it's better at my parents' house and I'm usually clawing at the gate within a week there," Percivan glanced over to one of his aides as she grumbled while trying to light the fire. 

Dama Noor al-Jedin was one of the members of the delegation that Percivan had been determined to drag from her assignment as a cartographer on the far southern coast. She was not Imperial by birth, instead, the daughter of a noble family from the desert Kingdom of R'Kassi, a land that traditionally maintained relations with Gwynedd in preference to the Empire. 

Noor's knighthood, and inclusion into the knightly ranks, was a controversial issue so old that Percivan suspected that even the conservatives were keeping up the opposition due to tradition. Around a century ago, Noor's grandfather's grandfather – or someone along those lines, travelling the borders of the desert Kingdom, rushing home to be with his wife and young daughters, was set upon by a large band of outlaws. Outnumbered and outmatched, they were forced to flee for their lives across the baking desert. Their horses were almost dropping with exhaustion, and the bandits had nearly caught up when the party was saved by a passing Imperial patrol. In gratitude and awe to the female knights who had made up the majority of the patrol (female knights were more likely to be in the light cavalry units, and in turn, more likely to be in warmer climes), he promised that there should always be friendship with the Imperials and peace along the border, and sealed the promise by swearing that his daughters, granddaughters, and indeed, all his female descendants, would attend the Knights' Academy in Bersone. 

The flaw in his plan was immediately obvious within one generation. After years of the comparative freedoms in Bersone, it was rather difficult to convince his daughters to return to their traditions, to arranged political matches, and lives forever secluded in the women's quarters, lives restricted to the house and children. However, being a man of his word, and after many hard-fought negotiations with his family, they compromised. Now, for the past few generations, one daughter of the al-Jedin house had gone to the Knights' Academy, had earned her knighthood, had served in the Empire honourably and well…and had never returned to R'Kassi. Cynics tended to observe that the daughters who were sent were those who were the most wilful, most destructive, and without great beauty or charm to compensate, the ones who would never be happy with a political marriage in any case. 

Noor was the female knight of her generation, and, unlike her aunt and great-aunt who had never looked back since the day they left on their ponies for the east, wrote to and visited her parents with a regularity that would have been remarkable had they lived half the distance from Bersone. She was invaluable in helping Percivan in Rhemuth, and provided seemingly endless genealogical commentary on almost every member of the Court. 

A knock on the door and a nervous-looking pageboy heralded the entrance of the King. Percivan stood and bowed as a mark of respect. Behind him, aides scattered to their appointed positions, and Noor slipped out the window. They had decided that she and the other two female knights in the party should stay out of sight initially, as Gwynedd had what the Imperials regarded as ridiculously rigid gender roles. 

"Good morrow, Sir Percivan," the King was formal. 

"Good morrow, Highness," it felt odd calling anyone but Princess Berenice 'Highness', but it seemed polite. 

King Kelson gestured to the small crowd who had followed him. "You have, I trust, already made the acquaintance of my uncle Prince Nigel, the Duke of Corwyn, the Duke of Cassan, and the Bishop Duncan McLain" 

Percivan noted that he had indeed already had conversation with the King's most trusted advisers – the Prince, Duke of Corwyn and the Bishop were mature men well into their thirties, but the Duke of Cassan could be barely into his twenties – before he signalled to one of the aides to offer refreshments. 

It was a polite conversation, one that touched only briefly on the trade issues at hand, one more designed for each side to know the other.   
  


The servant looked at her suspiciously when she asked the way to the women's quarters, but Noor simply returned the level stare until he looked away. Her outfit – ankle-length robe concealing shirt and breeches – was not particularly shocking even in Gwynedd, but it was sufficiently exotic to mark her a foreigner. She wondered what the servant's reaction would have been had she worn her sword, or been more blatant about her white knight's belt. 

It was more than a professional interest that took her to the women's quarters. Sheer nosiness had a lot to do with it too. She vaguely remembered Rothana ar-Rafiq as a childhood playmate, though one she had always thought excessively prissy. When she had visited her parents shortly after attaining knighthood, they had been full to bursting about her distant cousin, about how she had left the convent where she had been a novice during some civil uprising (Noor hadn't even known that her cousin wished to become a nun – it seemed a pretty boring occupation to her), had fallen in love with the King of Gwynedd, who had fallen down a cliff, then married his cousin, who was executed for treason, had a son by him named Albin, and then, when the King turned out to be alive and well, refused to marry him and instead arranged a marriage with his cousin, Princess Araxie Haldane. Who Noor was also allegedly related to, but her eyes had glazed over long before Great-Aunt Khadija had finished explaining the family tree. No matter how much Noor had felt that she disliked Rothana, this was a story she wanted more details on. It sounded better than the sort of cheap two-copper novels that were supposed to be beneath the dignity of highly-educated knights, the sort which every young knight of her acquaintance amassed by the bookshelf-load. To tell the truth, this was a story her entire family wanted more details on, and on her last visit, when she had thoughtlessly mentioned this trip, her mother, sisters and aunts would not let her leave the bower before she promised to see Rothana in Rhemuth, deliver a saddlebag full of letters, and ruthlessly interrogate her. 

The maidservant who opened the door gave her a look which made the servant in the hall look positively polite. However, she took one look at the quality of the jewels that glittered at Noor's fingers, wrists and throat, before asking sullenly how she could help. 

"If you please, could you please convey to her Highness the Nabila Rothana ar-Rafiq Haldane, if she is present," (Rothana was – she was visiting her in-laws, Prince Nigel and Duchess Meraude, Kelson's aunt and uncle – as Noor had ascertained when they had arrived), "that her Cousin Noor has letters from the family." 

Plainly caught between curiosity and confusion, the maid let Noor in to stand in an outer reception room before hustling off. 

The room was small, but well decorated, the walls covered with the sort of embroidering done by noble ladies with plenty of spare time on their hands. 

Small footsteps on the floor just preceded a small boy who came barrelling out of a nearby door and crashed headlong into Noor's boots, hidden as they were under her robe. As she bent down to help him, he looked directly up at her and declared "You look like Grandma!" 

She guessed that this must be young Prince Albin, son of Rothana and her late husband Prince Conall, Kelson's first cousin who he had executed for some unspecified act of treason. Certainly she could think of no other young Gwyneddian noble who would have recognisably Moorish, much less R'Kassi relatives. She wasn't terribly impressed about being taken for a woman two decades her senior, though, when she was only two months older than the boy's mother. 

Of course, the pale skin, light grey eyes, and black hair that was said to be characteristic of the Haldane family were a dead give-away. 

The swish of a skirt made Noor look up and give a slight bow to her (distant) cousin, who now hurried through the door after her son. 

"Nabila Rothana," 

"Sheika Noor," Rothana returned the formal greeting, using the title that Noor had been born with, but never used. Children of the Houses in the Empire bore no titles until they earned that of knight. Not even Empress's children used the honorary titles of 'Prince' or 'Princess' until they were knighted. 

"I hope that you are well," Noor started with the standard pleasantries, not knowing quite how to approach a woman she hadn't seen in a decade and a half. 

"I am. Thank you. What brings you to Rhemuth?" she asked as they found seats on the cushioned semi-alcoves around the room. 

"I am currently attached to the trade delegation from the Empress Rislyn. However, I passed though R'Kassi on my way to join the delegation, so I have been entrusted with letters for you." The stack of sweet-scented parchment and paper easily filled a dispatch bag, and Noor was convinced that it had been breeding, particularly when she had been forced to send yet another beautiful souvenir to the baggage train because she had no room for it in her packs. 

"I had heard that you went East." Rothana took the letters and briefly scanned the names of approximately half the high-ranking ladies in R'Kassi and the Forcinn buffer states. "I hope that you were happy there." 

"I am, thank you." 

A pause. 

"I have been, of course, instructed to wish you good health from every single lady in R'Kassi, and that they, in turn, are all in exceedingly good health." 

Rothana was saved from having to make a reply by a knock at the door. The grumbling maidservant opened it to reveal to King and some of his advisers. Noor recognised them from the formal Court the day before – Alaric Morgan, the Duke of Corwyn, the King's Champion and closest advisor, Prince Nigel – Rothana's father-in-law and the King's uncle, and the Duke of Cassan – a very young man only about Noor's age, with bright red hair and freckles, said to be the King's closest friend. He gave Noor an appreciative look. 

Duchess Meraude, Prince Nigel's wife, bustled out to greet them, and only when such preliminaries were over did the rest of the party take notice of Rothana and her visitor. Noor spared a glance over at Rothana, who had been trying to make herself as unnoticeable as possible. Was there still some – as some called it – 'difficulty' between Rothana and the King? However, when the men took notice of Noor's distinctly foreign appearance and dress, Rothana was forced to introduce them. 

"My cousin Sheika Noor al-Jedin, currently attached to the trade delegation…" 

Noor bowed gracefully. "I am honoured to make your acquaintance, your Majesty, your graces." 

The bowed in return. In the moment of awkward silence that followed, Rothana, struggling for conversation, remarked. "Duke Alaric is married the former Lady Richenda FitzEwan – do you remember her?" 

Noor did. Richenda was the only girl who had played in the gardens in Andelon who had not made fun of her tendency to be continually in trouble. "Of course. Although, it was nearly fifteen years ago, so my memories are somewhat dim. Am I able to pay my respects to her?" 

"Unfortunately, no. She is currently in Corwyn." 

"Then I hope that you Grace will be so kind as to convey my greetings and very good wishes for her health." 

Morgan replied that he would do so. 

They were spared the necessity of further conversation by the arrival of a breathless young page, bearing a message from Sir Percivan requesting the presence of Dama Noor.   
  


It was not the most dignified position for a King, head down in a basin while Callum, his valet, tried to make sure that all his hair was covered with the evil-smelling gunk. Yevgen dyed his hair a few shades darker these days, his natural pale blond taking more years off his age than he wanted to. The ensuing effect was subtle, but had the desired result, making him look more like the archetypal sun-god-warrior-king and less as if he'd been locked in a cellar for a decade (his opinion). The disadvantage, of course, was that the time-consuming process had to be performed frequently, for the only thing more noticeable than dark roots with blond hair is blond hair with lighter blond roots. With the Saren royal couple's schedules the way that they were, it had to be done either late at night or early in the morning. 

It was early one such morning when Kalasin came in with their mail and asked bluntly "Who's Noor al-Jedin?" 

"Who?" Yevgen asked, as he stuck his head under the water to wash the last of the muck off. 

"We have a letter from her…and…oh, she's got a letter from Radanae in hers." Kalasin started as she broke the seal. 

"I can think of one Noor of the top of my head. She's a cartographer with the navy – she was in Kelvar Gavrillian's year – two below me. I can't think why she would write, though." 

"She's with the delegation in Gwynedd," Kalasin had already scanned the letter, and was now breaking open Radanae's. "Oh. Noor's from that part of the world – R'Kassi" she struggled with the pronunciation. "Radanae's recommended her as a reliable source, and so she's passing letters to us while she's with the delegation, and she'll stop by to exchange anything more sensitive on the way back to Bersone." 

"Good old Danae," Yevgen said affectionately, towelling off his hair. It was the expected shade now, a sort of light gold or very pale honey. It suited him well, and made him look his twenty-three years. Behind him, Callum was making little noises of disgust as the valet cleaned the basin. Callum didn't think much of his employer's conservative tastes in hair-dye. Ever since Yevgen had started, Callum had been badgering the King to dye his hair red, or burgundy – suggestions that Yevgen had steadfastly refused.   
  
  


"Distant kin," Rothana was explaining to Kelson and the others. "I haven't seen her since we were children – she was always very boisterous, always breaking vases and such. She went away east to school very young. An ancestor of ours once owed his life to the Imperials, so, in return, he promised them friendship and peace across the borders. To seal that friendship, he promised to send daughters East for schooling. It took until his eldest daughter returned, at the age of eighteen, to know that it wouldn't work. When he arranged a marriage for her – a good one – she flatly refused, then climbed out her window that night, drugged a stableboy, took a horse from the stables, knocked two guardsmen unconscious and rode out east – and she never returned." 

"And then?" Dhugal McArdry McLain, the Duke of Cassan and the King's sworn blood-brother, was enthralled. 

"He had given his word, of course, so he could hardly change that. But I gather than he was rather taken aback at the prospect that all his daughters would simply pack up and leave if he tried to order them to do anything, and so in subsequent generations, it's only ever been one daughter who's gone." She thought for a while. "True to form, none of them ever seem to come home again. I was rather surprised that Noor even stopped there long enough to collect all these letters," she indicated the pile of sweet-scented paper that lay forgotten on the couch. 

Nigel then asked something that had been plaguing him since the beginning of his daughter-in-law's story. "Why daughters? Surely…" he let his voice trail off. 

Rothana shrugged. "That's simply the way its always been. That particular ancestor of ours was known for a great surfeit of daughters – and his sons were both born long after he made that particular vow." 

"She was certainly playing messenger for half of R'Kassi," Meraude remarked, noticing the size of the pile. 

"That's a part of it," Rothana agreed with her mother-in-law, "but I can't help thinking that there was something else. Of course, after a few weeks with our relatives, she might simply have been curious about me – it is like a minstrel's tale, whether we admit it or not." 

That got a grin, though minute, even from the habitually glum Kelson. Rothana continued. "Uncle Azim once remarked that the Imperials could lesson foxes in cunning, and the Devil himself in deceit. My cousin's been one for a dozen years and more – I doubt she would play the messenger or make polite conversation with me simply for her own amusement." 

"By the by," Morgan asked as they went into the solar to greet the other children – Princess Eirian, Nigel and Meraude's young daughter, and the twin Princes Richard and Brion, "is your cousin Deryni, by any chance?" 

Another shrug from Rothana. "I wouldn't know. Certainly she has Deryni blood, but whether she is one herself I couldn't tell. She has excellent shields, as you no doubt noticed when the delegation arrived."   
  
  


"She's not quite as disagreeable as I remember," Noor told her superior. "But I sincerely doubt, no matter what the rumours say, that she'll be the next Queen. Kelson evidently does still feel something for her – but it's not the sort of overriding passion that's going to sweep everything aside. She has been refusing him for a good four years now, and she seems determined to enter a religious life when her son is old enough – nice enough kid, by the way – Deryni, or Talented, as we might call it." 

Percivan's eyebrows swept up in surprise. 

"It took me a while to realise it, because they use different protocols and such – but between what I picked up when I visited my family, and what we've managed to observe here, it's the same as some of the lesser Talents – particularly communication, a little movement, a little light, a little fire – nothing spectacular." 

"Good." Percivan nodded with definite satisfaction. "We've concluded the preliminaries. We can leave tomorrow as scheduled then. I hear Yevgen has a fantastic cook – not to mention central heating, civilised guards, rush-free floors, table manners, and indoor plumbing. I don't ever want to try and eat politely without a fork again."   



	3. Bloodied Sunrise

Bloodied Sunrise

The knight frowned. 

Not that Dama Justinia Ferox was exactly the most sprightly of people, even at the best of times. 

There was something familiar in the air. Something she wished that wasn't familiar. She hadn't felt it since those few weeks she had spent in Scanra, nearly a year ago. A few weeks, one arrow, and a rather large bonus from the Empress that lay in her personal coffers, ready for the day she purchased a Gavrillian destrier for full and fair price. She knew that Uma, even with her cantankerous temper, was worth far more than the sum she had paid. Justinia never took charity if she could help it – though she readily admitted that she would have been hard-pressed to afford all her high-quality gear without the generous subsidy Radanae had offered on the dappled mare as partial repayment for the endless hours they had worked on Radanae's swordplay and archery. 

There was a taste of blood in the air, and not from war. 

No. Whatever this was, it was not something – she hesitated over the word – _natural_. Something was very wrong. 

She descended from the battlements of the northern border fort that was the Princess Berenice's headquarters, knowing that she had to find someone who knew what it was.   
  
  


It was growing strong. A mere shadow at first, lapping greedily at the pain and terror that flowed like the blood that fed it when life fled, it flourished and grew, demanding and greedy. In practical terms, was of no consequence how the sacrifice died, so long as it did and there was blood, even a drop. It made no difference if the human was Empress or lowly slave. The effect was the same, but blood-wraiths were notorious snobs (or at least, notorious to those who actually bother to do some research before summoning them). But snobs they were, and while they were weak they did not bother being fussy, but took what poor fare was offered. But this one was strong now, and its demands on the necromancer grew with each sacrifice, the blood only partially slaking its thirst. The necromancer had been able to calm the demon with increasing inventive deaths, each taking longer than the last, but soon, soon, it would tire of beggars, of drug-addicts, of renegades and slaves. Soon, it would demand better blood, noble blood, royal blood. Soon, it would summon its kin to feast. 

The morning Court when King Kelson and his Court bid farewell to the Empress's embassy, sending them away with rich gifts in exchange for the treasures they had brought – no weapons, for this was a simple trade delegation, not yet a full alliance – but treasures none the less. Silks by the yard, of colours never dreamed of, printed and embroidered with fanciful patterns. Jewelled goblets. Plates. Amphorae of wine as fine as nectar and very nearly as sweet, and crystal decanters to put them in. Fine gifts, from an Empress to a King. In return, the King sent amber, the sort rare and fine, and fine soft furs so rich that one would swear were still gracing the beasts' backs, and the heady honey-mead for which Gwynedd was so famous. 

They exchanged gifts and left, neither side thinking further of future relations, save they be for fine, luxurious things – gems, wines, cloth and horses – good things, true, but hardly essential, like the taxes and import duties each would levy. Princess Rothana had somehow found herself promising to correspond very regularly with a distant cousin who described herself as a secretary, and Alaric Morgan, King's Champion, Protector of the South, and Duke of Corwyn found himself entrusted with a scented letter from the self-same secretary, but apart from those two exceptions, no one in that Court ever imagined that they would see each other again for a very long time.   
  
  


It took them less time than expected to reach the Saren capital, partly because there were no more hordes of bandits on the road (or at least, none so foolish as to prey on such a well armed troop, small as it was), partly because the roads themselves were in excellent repair, the cement so fresh that nobody had yet thought to chip the rocks away for diverse purposes of their own. 

Yevgen was there to welcome them in person, curious about his neighbours, the loose conglomeration of nations who called themselves the Eleven Kingdoms (as though there aren't eleven times that and more, Kalasin had remarked acidly when she heard of the term). However, not even his curiosity could overcome his manners, and the entire delegation found themselves virtually purring with delight even before the simple, but splendid meal (with sufficient cutlery) the Saren royals put before them that night, so glad were they to return to the trappings of their civilisation – hot baths, time in the steam-rooms, running water, proper flushing privies. And forks. 

"Not a terribly cheerful court," Noor observed over the soup, "but the Queen died only a few months ago, and she was very popular, so everyone was glooming around in black. I managed to sneak a look at the two little princes just before we left – trading shamelessly on Cousin Rothana – but it did the job. They're ridiculously healthy considering that they were early, their mother died birthing them, and they're inbred even by Eleven-Kingdom standards, by the way." She signalled for seconds as though she hadn't eaten for a month. 

"King Kelson seems to be competent and secure in his authority," Percivan added, as he let the servers remove his soup bowl. "Then, with eight years on the Throne, a couple of minor wars – at least, minor by our standards – and an attempted ursupation – he would have to be to survive this long." 

"A bit pathetic, I thought," it was one of the young male knights, in his mid-twenties, ostensibly a secretary but in reality a bodyguard. "Mopes around dressed all in black twisting his rings. I kept expecting him to break out in a mournful soliloquy." 

Noor glared at her fellow knight. "His wife – who he liked very much, I'm told – has just died giving birth to his sons, he's had to execute a first cousin for treason, the woman supposedly his first love has been refusing to marry him for the last four years, and his first wife was murdered by her brother, not to mention that within months of being crowned the State Church declared him evil, which meant that a goodly proportion of his people did too. I didn't expect him to be the jolly sort." 

The knight, thus rebuked, made an uncomplimentary remark about theology as he was suddenly engrossed in selecting a bread roll. 

Noor laughed, "Well, they're not exactly known for their tolerance. The State Church in the Eleven Kingdoms is extremely powerful, and nearly everyone is brought up to believe most fervently that there _is_ no God but God and that…oh, sorry, that's my people. Our faith is slightly different in form but the substance is similar. At any rate, the people tend to believe anything and everything their religious leaders tell them, and there hasn't been a marked respect for differences of opinion. Lots of stoning, burning at the stake and other assorted punishments for people who don't agree with accepted Church canon." 

"When I was talking to some of their religious leaders, I always found myself wondering what they would think of the Blessed Way." Percivan remarked with a chuckle, sighing in pleasure as the main courses were laid out. 

Everyone at the table, grinned at the older knight's remark. The 'Blessed Way' in Bersone was the religious district of the capitol, filled with temples to nearly every single deity worshiped in the length and breath of the Empire, vast cathedrals and humble shrines alike crowded into the clearly defined area, bordered by magnificent high ornamental walls and wide streets. Some might have wondered how so many different faiths, with their differing creeds and strong-willed faithful, could survive in such close proximity, much less thrive as they all seemed to do. The answer was simple. The diverse and varied multitudes that populated the Blessed Way might have been divided by their gods, by their creeds, by their theologies and their beliefs, but they were united in one thing. The overriding knowledge, firmly impressed upon them by successive Empresses, that any disturbances more severe than a few drunken novices in the sort of brawl expected in all young people regardless of faith, would result in the entire district being razed to the ground, and any ringleaders sent to the Display.   
  


'Have you a moment?" Without waiting for a reply, the Head of the Imperial Intelligence Service entered the tastefully decorated, if cramped office of one of her favourite proteges. 

"Not really, but that's not going to make a difference, is it?" Radanae Gavrillian laid aside the stack of essays she had been correcting. She had been cajoled into teaching a short course at the Knights' Academy on the recent history of the lands beyond the Roof, well attended not only by knight-cadets but by students from the Imperial University. She looked disdainfully at the one assessment task she had set her students. 

"That bad, is it?" Dama Benazai's eyes, one blue, one brown, twinkled with amusement. 

"Worse," Radanae exhaled heavily. "All I've seen so far is twenty-seven different versions of the lecture notes _I_ so kindly provided, each demonstrating a poorer grasp of grammar than the next." 

"Poor dear." Benazai knew her eventual successor well enough to see that it was the poor grammar rather than the sheer number of essays that had Radanae so irate. "Percivan's delegation is finished in Rhemuth sooner than we thought," Benazai announced bluntly. "Not a great deal going on there that we didn't know already. They've just arrived in the Saren capital. Noor will stay on there in case there are unexpected developments north of the mountains in Torenth and Gwynedd. Our maps for that sector need updating anyway, and she's a remarkably skilled cartographer." 

Radanae nodded. "I had expected…what?" She asked, alarmed, as her role model jumped up from the chair and strode quickly to the window. Benazai had a strong Gift, and she was among the best mages in the entire Empire. Nothing much tended to faze her. 

Radanae's own Gift was modest in comparison, useful enough for everyday things like lighting lamps and finding water, but she needed complex incantations and boxes of equipment for the 'fancy' sort of magic. 

Then, in the quiet, she felt it. Very faint. Not so much a tugging but a smell. A smell of old blood, of pain, of fear…of death. 

White around the lips, Dama Benazai Urraca pushed herself away from the narrow window and turned towards the younger woman. "Give them all B's," she said curtly, meaning the essays, "you won't have the time to mark them before semester finishes. We have to go and see Rislyn. There's blood magic being used. Old blood magic. Necromancy." 

"But that's been banned since…" 

"Exactly. Come on, then." 

Being the Head of Intelligence gets you an appointment with the Empress rather quickly, even if the Empress is the mother of a squalling baby girl, and rather preoccupied. 

"Apologies, Imperatrix," Benazai swept into the Empress's private quarters. "Hello, Corin, Ishtar" she nodded at the sleep-deprived Consort, who was engaged in changing a nappy, and the indignant Heir-Presumptive. Corin nodded back absently, mouth full of pins. Ishtar kept screaming. 

"You felt it too," Rislyn didn't both with preliminaries. Her own Gift was not insignificant, but it was so erratic of late (she put it down to pregnancy) that she used it as little as possible, for it took more energy to control her power than the amount of power she could harness. From the trembling of her hands and the large mug of herbal tea on the table, she had been particularly sensitive to the recent surge of blood-energy. "It's like the Display – only a thousand times worse." 

"The Display is blood-magic, whether we admit it or not," Benazai reminded her liege. 

But the magic of the Display was a particular sort, designed to drain most of the blood lust from the watchers by flooding their channels with it, or by diffusing it between so many people, or something like that. It had been explained to Radanae numerous times, but this was one of the few things that she had never been able to understand. This taint – or, for Rislyn, an overpowering surge – of blood magic – had no such refinements on it. It was raw, primal – according to legend, the first kind of magic ever used by humans. 

"Where did it come from? The death-cults have been outlawed for over two centuries, and were in decline even before that. The other faiths know their fate should they condone or harbour blood-sacrifice." 

Quite. These days, the Empress and the Senate showed their sincere disapproval of killing taxpayers for religious reasons by condemning the guilty to a lifetime of mine work – for however long the perpetrator's life would be. 

"A whisper. No aftertrail. I'll set agents on it at once, Imperatrix. But I doubt they would be hidden in any Religious Quarter that values its existence." 

"All the same, I want all of the leaders in here. Immediately, if not before. "   
  


Like nearly all stone buildings, the great cathedral in Rhemuth wasn't exactly the most comfortable place for quiet contemplation, let alone the great royal crypt below the ground. Barely half a mile from the castle proper, Kelson found himself there frequently. To think. To pray. To mourn. Once he had come here for his father, the stiff, forbidding effigy so unlike the man he knew and loved. Then it was for Sidana, his first wife only in name. Daughter of the Mearan pretender, a solution to the separatist problem that had been plaguing Gwynedd for generations. A girl – no, not much more than a child, drowning in her own blood minutes after they had said their vows. Now it was for Araxie, his wife and Queen in truth, mother of his sons. He let himself smile a little at the thought, the only relief from his sorrow. Richard and Brion, named for both their grandfathers, as fine and healthy as any babies had a right to be. One fair, one dark, but both already showing the grey Haldane eyes, and the strength of their Deryni heritage. 

The three tombs stood, imposing and silent among the tombs of his ancestors. Araxie's was the newest, the white stone almost glowing in the dim light of the crypt. The master stonemason had done his finest work. Her effigy so lifelike, so beautiful that it sometimes appeared that she still drew breath. 

An illusion only, of course. She was gone these many months, her last breath but seconds after her sons' first. Not even the combined skills of Morgan, Duncan and Dhugal, who had rushed into the chamber past the protesting midwives at Richenda's desperate call, could save her. She had died in Kelson's arms, her blood drenching him, as though Kelson's tragedy four years previous with Sidana had been but a grim foreshadowing of this nightmare. So little time had they had together, those few short months seemed to be but a cruel mockery, showing him the joy he could have in love before snatching it away. 

Rothana had suffered almost as much as he. Not only did she mourn for her friend, but she held herself responsible for her death – for arranging the marriage, and for Kelson's own grief. He wondered if she still loved him as much as she had that night in the garden, so long ago – before his quest to find Saint Camber, before Conall, before Albin. He knew that she would forever have a place in his heart – his first great love for a woman – but they could never return to what they had been. No longer was he still a mere boy of eighteen, no longer was she the novice questioning her vocation. Things had changed too much. Things could never be as he once dreamed. 

Now the new dream that he had thought to build with Araxie – clever, calm, regal Araxie – friend of his heart, his true Queen – had turned into purgatory. Perhaps there had not yet been the all-consuming passion his adolescent fancies had yearned for – but there had been happiness, and peace, and the sense that he could be man as well as King, that he could live outside his duties, have cares for other things than his crown. 

In the chill of the chamber, he let his mind wander. But it did not dwell on Araxie, or anything else that had been concerning him of late. As soon as he allowed himself to let loose just a little of his tightly-held control he was plunged into a rapid, confusing series of images that seared his mind and burned his Deryni senses.   
  
  


A woman, a few years older than him, with a tightly-drawn face and the stance of a born commander snapping, "…and if they don't want to come, tell them I'll ban Life-Chasing for anyone but birthing mothers and wounded commanders as Necromancy." 

"Those are the only people we _do_ Life-Chase for, and it _is_ technically Necromancy," Another woman, in her late thirties, with one eye blue and one brown, and a very worried expression.   


It changed.   
  


A man and a woman, both about his age, in a richly appointed bedroom. The woman had flowing long hair as dark as any Haldane, and eyes of deep sapphire blue. The man had pale honey-blond hair and was watching her with a fierce protectiveness and love as she nursed a small baby. 

_That should be Araxie and I_, Kelson thought with a pang, as the woman looked up at the man with an equally fervent gaze. Then, both showed expressions of pain, the man dropping to his knees in agony, but trying to shield the woman who was holding the child tightly as if to place herself between it and the world.   


Another change.   


This time, a darkened room, not unlike the crypt where he knelt. A struggling shape on a slab, a hooded figure, the gleam of the knife. 

He didn't see the knife fall. The burning on his senses enveloped his mind. Death. Blood. Madness. Fear. All threatened to overwhelm him, to drag him down into the bottomless abyss.   


Kelson barely noticed when he struck the stone floor.   
  


"Kel, Kel!" his vision was grey, and finally cleared to Dhugal, bending over him, amber eyes terrified and freckles stark against white skin. 

"Where…where am I?" Kelson felt beneath himself to find soft linen instead of the hard stone floor. He was in his bedchamber, a far cry from the cathedral. "How did I get here?" 

Dhugal snorted, somewhat less alarmed now that his King and best friend was no longer lying as though dead on the bed. When they had finally found Kelson, lying sprawled on the floor of the royal crypt, many had thought the worst. 

"We carried you back. By litter. With the entire city half convinced you'd expired from grief…" 

"How long have I been out?" Kelson asked, noticing for the first time that they had an audience, including two very relieved-looking bishops in the form of Duncan McLain and Dennis Arilan, the (secretly) Deryni Bishop of Dhassa, a free holy city to the east. 

"Two days. You gave us quite a scare, my King," that was Morgan, who was sitting on the bed on the other side of Dhugal. Morgan was all in black, a habit he had once affected under King Brion as the previous King's 'mysterious' Deryni confidant, a habit that he had abandoned early in Kelson's reign because, (as an Imperial would have put it, though none in Gwynedd was to have known), it was not doing much for his image as a force of good. Whatever that meant. Morgan rarely wore black unless the occasion called for it. Kelson was about to remark upon it until he noticed that everyone else in the room was also garbed in a similar hue, even those who had abandoned deep mourning for Araxie. 

_They thought I was going to die._ He thought, and shivered. 

"I think I've just been working too hard," Kelson said, trying to sit up. To his utter disgust, his arms would not co operate. 

"No, rest, my liege," Morgan was polite but firm. "You've had precious little of it these last few months. We'll leave now." 

"No – ah – Morgan, Duncan, Dhugal – Uncle Nigel – stay, please, there's something I want to tell you…" 

The chosen men glanced at each other, but said nothing as the rest of the crowd filed out of the room.   
  
  
  


"….and then it was as though a fire was burning through my brain…I don't remember anything after that." 

Uneasy looks all around. "It's something…" Duncan ventured at last. "I doubt it's Saint Camber, though." 

"Me too," Morgan agreed with his cousin. "This is something new. Something I don't like the sound of. I've asked that Richenda come here," he informed the King. "She may be able to shed more light on it – and she may be able to tell us if it's connected to our recent visitors. From your description, the couple you saw sound like Yevgen and Kalasin of Sarain."   
  


Outside, Dennis Arilan strode quickly to the Transfer Portal. The Council would be relieved at Kelson's recovery – if only because Kelson, as contrary as he was, tended at least to be a known quality – but the timing of the King's collapse certainly concerned him. True, the young King had shouldered more than his fair burden of grief, and he had been burying himself into his office as an escape, but Arilan did not think it coincidence that two days ago, there had been a surge of power, all but unnoticeable to all but the strong. 

And he had no idea where it had come from.   
  
  
  


Yevgen looked annoyed as he read the latest missive from his eldest sister, snorting, "It's not as if anyone here Life-Chases anyway, not matter what the cause." 

"Life-Chase?" Kalasin asked curiously. 

Yevgen looked up, startled. He hadn't noticed her come into his office. "It's – well – it's right on the borderline between Healing and Necromancy. Basically, it's about dragging someone back when they should be dead and forcing them to live. Its strict legality has been questioned, particularly as true Necromancy has been banned for centuries. Not a lot is actually banned in the Empire, so prohibitions are enforced rather strictly." 

"Is it difficult? Life Chasing, I mean," Kalasin asked, curious. 

"Quite. The timing is important – you have to basically grab the life-force as soon as it tries to leave the body and then, for want of a better description, shove it back in and keep it there. Too long, and you get lost in the quest to find it – and the longer you take, the more tenuous the grip on your own life, because that's what sustains the magic, and that's also the case the longer you try to keep it contained. There's also an issue of power – not enough, and you can't find the life-thread, or keep it in the body. Too much – and you destroy it." 

"Have you ever done it?" Kalasin asked, curious. 

"Yes. Once."   



	4. Pinpointing the Problem

_Author's Notes: I've decided to move this story from 'Crossovers' to the Tamora Pierce section as it is the third in a trilogy, and since the first two stories are here already, it seemed more appropriate to keep them together.___

_In response to requests from Tamora Pierce fans asking about the Deryni series, the characters that I have so shamelessly appropriated in this story are found in the Katherine Kurtz novels Deryni Rising, Deryni Checkmate, High Deryni, The Bishop's Heir, The King's Justice, The Quest for St. Camber, and King Kelson's Bride. More information on Katherine Kurtz can be found on her official website, www.deryni.net. Araxie, Kelson's second wife, and the daughter of his grandfather's half-brother, is only in the last book, and since I don't have it at present, I didn't feel confident in trying to write her, so I killed her in the most plausible way I could think of – and in that world, childbirth would have been extremely dangerous, especially twins in a first pregnancy.___

_To make matters a little easier to follow, Gwynedd is a much more conservative, more rigidly patriarchal world than Tortall. To put it bluntly, Lord Wyldon would probably be regarded a progressive in Gwynedd. It is firmly rooted in early-middle-ages England, Scotland and Wales. Gwynedd is the largest of the Eleven Kingdoms, ruled by Kelson, who, in this story is twenty two, and has been King for eight years. He has that rarity of rarities in this genre, a loyal uncle, Prince Nigel, who is almost a father-figure and has no desire for the crown, and a cadre of devoted advisors – including Alaric Morgan, his Champion and ruler of a large duchy to the South, his cousin Duncan McLain, a Bishop who has given his seriously substantial holdings in the north and west to his son, Dhugal MacArdry McLain, Kelson's best friend and blood brother. There are a lot of others – presumably Kelson doesn't do too badly in the charisma stakes, which should make it interesting when he and Yevgen meet in a later chapter. Watch for male ego overload. It will be heaps of fun to write, since I've more experience with female protagonists.___

_'Deryni' powers are a bit like ESP – mindspeech, some telekinesis, and, for a long while, banned in Gwynedd, and many Deryni were burned as witches. This was overturned after it was discovered that Kelson was Deryni (though there were other factors involved), ironically inherited from his religious-hysteric Deryni-hating mother Queen Jehana (who I don't particularly like, can you tell?). Kelson's Haldane family line also has Deryni-like powers that they've passed off as part of their 'Divine Right of Kings'. The most prominent Deryni in the books who will feature in this story are Morgan, Duncan and Dhugal – who are also Healers – something far rarer in Gwynedd than it is in Tortall, Morgan's highly-educated wife Richenda, and, of course, Rothana.___

_There is a very powerful Christian Church in the Eleven Kingdoms – of which there are two distinct branches, one similar to Roman Catholicism, one similar to the Eastern Orthodox Church, though there are several recurring characters who appear to be Muslims. For those who picked it up in Chapter 3, I've assumed that Noor's R'Kassi family is Muslim, as all the other lands in the Eleven Kingdoms have been implied to be predominantly Christian, and R'Kassi is the only one left whose status has not been verified one way or another - those recurring Muslim characters have to come from somewhere, after all.___

_Right, I've meandered on long enough, on with the story._

Pinpointing the Problem 

"There are," Yevgen declared over a stack of correspondence. "Entirely too many people who like to abbreviate their names to 'Kel'." 

Kalasin chuckled. "Intelligence from Tortall again?" 

He nodded, and passed over the parchment he had been reading. "Nothing terribly sensitive. Only that Lady Keladry is still being lauded through the length and breadth of Tortall for her heroics against those metallic monsters, and that young Kelvar Gavrillian has gone back there." 

"I though Rislyn had recalled him." 

"So she had. To give him his honourable discharge from the Swords, a rather nice little cash bonus to show her appreciation for his services, and to release him from his personal bonds to her. He left Bersone for Corus on that same day." 

"Not as though there's a huge rush. My sister isn't exactly drowning in marriage proposals anymore."   


They both knew the reason for that. After the complete destruction of his devastating weapons, Maggur Rathhausak, finding himself barely in command of an increasingly bickering confederation of clans, and with an increasing confident Tortallan army across the mountains, had desperately sued for peace. To seal that peace, he proposed marriage to Princess Lianne, and an enormous bride-price that made Barnesh's offer look like that from a second-rate tinker. 

Kalasin had known something was unusual when Lianne did not raise so much as a token protest at the Scanran emissary's suggestion of a hasty marriage-by-proxy. Her parents had expressed serious misgivings, of course, but the majority of the Council (the King's Champion and Prime Minister excepted) had strongly advocated the match, thinking only that the younger princess had picked up a streak of the now-famous Imperial practicality during her time in Sarain. The wedding had taken place, nonetheless, the bride-price paid, but not three days later Maggur himself was dead. A hunting accident, they said. A stray arrow, marked with the distinctive fletching of a rival clan whose hunting grounds bordered his own. 

The delegation from Scanra left swiftly, so that its members would not miss out on the loot, as the Baron of Pirate's Swoop was heard to remark derisively. 

Now, of course, Lianne was an extremely wealthy technical widow, but even that wealth, her beauty, and her connections did not attract many suitors – and certainly none that her royal father was likely to approve of. Whispers abounded that the Tortallan Princess was Blessed by the Goddess, and far above any mere man – as the deaths of the two who had tried to claim her amply showed. 

But one young man seemed to be intent on defying the Goddess. One young man who had given up a promising post at his Empress's side to become merely First Secretary and bodyguard to the new Envoy to a Court far from the Empress's notice. 

One young man who knew that the deaths of the Princess Lianne's previous suitors had very little to do with the gods, and everything to do with a somewhat more temporal authority whose name meaning 'beautiful laughter' was seriously inappropriate, almost as inappropriate as the tool she used named for 'justice' by an overly optimistic mother.   


"Has anyone got anything on what happened the other night?" Kalasin asked. 

Both the Saren royals looked ragged, to put it politely, with deep shadows under their eyes. The less observant in the Court assumed that the young couple were simply occupied in getting 'reacquainted' following the birth of their daughter. A few, mainly those Gifted themselves, knew that there was something more serious afoot. 

Yevgen shook his head. "All we know – all anyone knows, is that plenty of Gifted and Talented felt something similar at approximately the same time. Ris did, as did Kay. There are reports of similar complaints as far as Tortall and Cathark. I'm still waiting to see whether our friends in the Eleven Kingdoms might have felt similar effects." 

"You think they have Gifted there too?" 

He nodded. "Noor thinks that the 'Deryni' as they're called there, are simply another branch of Talents. She left home too young for training in those gifts, and since her Talent was recognised and trained at the Academy, her shields were good enough by the time she visited her home again that they didn't realise that she had those special skills." 

"Do you know Noor well?" 

"No, not really. She was really more of Kel's friend, and 'Danae sort of took her under her wing somewhat, invited her to stay at the Gavrillian estates for holidays when she didn't make the trek home, helped her adjust to Bersone, took her shopping, that sort of thing." 

"That was nice of her." 

"Radanae doesn't do things because she's nice, though she can be when the whim takes her. Noor is connected to the R'Kassi royal family, and through them, Eleven-Kingdom nobility – whose numbers are small enough that everybody is everybody else's cousin - and she's incredibly observant and has a near-perfect memory." 

"You said she was a naval cartographer…but if she's on these assignments…" Kalasin began slowly, but then Yevgen finished the thought. 

"No, she won't be there for much longer. Since Noor isn't Imperial by birth, there are some misgivings about her and her like playing a more …sensitive role in the Empire, though her family has given us knights – fine ones at that – for nearly a century, when there are full Houses younger than that. I have a feeling that if Rislyn – get what she wants out of this exchange, the al-Jedin family may find that one of their branches is a full knightly House, with the ear of the Empress."   
  


King Kelson insisted on getting out of bed the next day, to the consternation of his physicians, and the relief from the rest of the Court. His conversations with the few Deryni at Court worried him. It appeared that the power-surge he had felt two nights ago was not limited to him alone – it appeared that the more powerful, the more highly trained the person, the more they had noticed. Denis Arilan, the Bishop who was a powerful Deryni and member of the continuously-squabbling Camberian Council which sought to govern the Deryni, admitted that he had come down with a severe headache, while Dhugal, whose duties as Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney and Transha limited his time for training, had felt no more than a twinge. As it was, he waited impatiently for the Duchess Richenda of Corwyn, Morgan's wife, to arrive, hoping that she would be able to shed some light on the troubles. 

Richenda, who Kelson knew had full training in her Deryni gifts, arrived looking worse than could be explained by the journey, the reason, as he had suspected, that she had felt the painful surge of power. After making sure that her younger children, six year old Briony and four year old Kelric (her twelve-year-old son from her first marriage, Brendan Coris, the Earl of Marley, was already at Court serving as a squire) were settled in, she joined the King's closest advisors in Kelson's private chambers. 

"I must confess that I've never felt anything like it before," she said as soon as they were seated. "I remember seeing a scroll that discussed something similar once, about ten years ago, but I didn't have the opportunity to examine it in detail." 

It was an oblique reference, but one that they all understood. Her first husband, Bran Coris, the Earl of Marley, had not felt it appropriate that a woman have interests beyond that of chatelaine and mother – so she had regretfully had to put aside the intellectual life she had enjoyed as a girl during their half-decade of marriage. During that time, she had probably seen, and had to let go, a wealth of rare works that merchants had thought that the scholarly granddaughter of the Prince of Andelon might have enjoyed. Things were different now, of course, with Morgan actively encouraging and sharing her literary interests, and laying open his not-insubstantial treasury for the expansion of her library. Though she never mentioned it, he was only too aware of her wistful musings on the fate of the works she had refused. It was another reason to dislike the late Earl, if his status as a traitor to the Crown were not involved. Kelson had been forced to kill him when the King himself was only fourteen. 

Though he would never know, Rislyn had been impressed at that little snippet of information. Not even she did her own dirty work these days, and she doubted that she could have done it at the same age. 

Richenda screwed her face up in concentration – though on the beautiful Duchess, it only manifested in a slight wrinkling of her nose. "From memory – the only thing that even remotely comes to mind is what is termed 'blood magic' - where energy for a spell is harnessed from the death – preferably painful – of humans." She shook her head. "There haven't been any recorded incidences of its use for close to three hundred and fifty years, for it was so difficult to control that even those skilled in such powers were reluctant to use it. If Wencit of Torenth had had any knowledge of its power, we'd have had a much harder time." 

The others shuddered at the thought. King Wencit of Torenth had fought a fairly short, but bloody war with Gwynedd shortly after Kelson's ascension to the throne. To cut a very long story short, the end result was his defeat, and Torenth became a vassal-state of Gwynedd. Indeed, its present King, fifteen-year-old Liam-Lagos II, had been a squire to Prince Nigel for several years. Wencit's Deryni powers had been formidable enough – imaging what he might have done with more power at his beck and call was distinctly unattractive. 

"I'm afraid I'm not any better versed in the subject that Lady Richenda," Bishop Arilan informed them sadly when the others turned to him, as he was the only other Deryni with substantial training other than Richenda (the others – Kelson, Morgan, Duncan and Dhugal – had received most of what training they had from Richenda). "The ancient texts do not mention it save as something that is forbidden as a power of evil. With your permission, gentlemen, Lady Richenda, might I approach the Council about this matter?" 

"Arilan, you already have. Why do you need my permission?" Kelson replied, slightly acidly. 

The Bishop managed to look slightly embarrassed.   
  


"It hit Sarain much worse than it hit us," Myles of Olau, King Jonathan of Tortall's Head of Intelligence summarised the situation. "Here, it's mainly been very powerful mages in the middle of workings, or mages-in-training who haven't quite got the hang of their shields…" 

"Point taken. Numair still hasn't stopped grumbling about whatever-it-was he was working on." Jonathan replied, sighing. While his own Gift was strong, his shields were immaculate, and he rarely did complex workings, so he had felt merely a slight scratching on the surface of his shields, while many mages at the Royal University were still howling about the destruction of their delicate experiments. 

"…while in Sarain," Myles continued, "it was the moderately Gifted as well. Kalasin's fine," Myles added hastily as Jonathan sat up, panicked, "but worried. She and Yevgen have asked our help on this. They're also sending over the Roof to see what was affected. So far their hypothesis is consistent with our observations – that, the further from the source of this – disturbance – the fewer people are strong enough in their Gift to feel it." 

"Oh?" 

"Yevgen's people keep scrupulous records on this sort of thing. I gather the unexpected upsets them. In northern Sarain – nearly everyone who has so much as a touch of the Gift felt something was wrong – in the lowlands, in the capital, the moderately powerful, close to the Roof, the Doi shamans and such. Past the Roof, there are fewer incidences the further east, and by the time it hits the capital, it's their University mages and the more powerful, but unskilled, knights-in-training, and not many else. Here, it's the same – the closer to Sarain, the more people feel it. Here, most Gifted felt little more than a twinge. In Maren, in eastern Galla, it's even the hedgewitches and wizards complaining about their brews going awry." 

"So it's from Sarain?" 

Myles shrugged. "It looks like it's from the highlands in the north that Sarain claims, and nobody else disputes. Whether it is part of Sarain or not is a technicality. The lowlanders tried to take it in the past, the Imperials are sensible enough to make treaties with what tribes they can find and ignore the rest."   
  


"…northern Saren highlands," Benazai concluded. 

"Clever, very clever," Rislyn shook her head. "Beyond our usual concern, easy enough to get to on the new roads and highways without raising suspicion, plenty of hiding holes, isolated enough that casual patrols won't find them, and unimportant enough that even my dear brother isn't going to send more than casual patrols there. After all, the K'mir clans that used to live in that sector were wiped out in the civil wars, and not even bandits can survive there. You're sure it's a blood-mage?" 

Benazai gave her Empress a look that implied that she was not going to say anything that was about to incriminate her. 

"Yes, yes, point taken. I was trying to maintain some sort of optimism." Rislyn sighed. "How's my brother?" 

"Shaken, if you must know. It's fortunate that the people trust Kalasin and he – otherwise we might have another civil war there. They've managed to reassure people that they're trying to work out what it was." 

"And now we know." Rislyn toyed with her pen, worrying the fine nib. 

"The problem is," Benazai finished the younger woman's thought, "is what we do about it."   
  


"Blood magic. That sounds ominous." Kalasin read the short note from Rislyn. 

"It should," Yevgen had been on edge ever since the terse communication, followed by reams of research papers had flooded through the communications-portal they used for urgent messages. "It involves using life-energy released in particularly messy and painful deaths in magical workings. An essential part of Classic Necromancy, and one of the reasons Necromancy got banned." He shook his head. "And it's here. Oh Gods above and below," he cursed, much to Kalasin's surprise – in the three years that they had been married, she had never been sure that he even believed in gods. 

"Is it the reasoning behind human sacrifice?" Kalasin mused. 

Yevgen nodded. "It's said to be the oldest form of magic – and why you find it in the ancient histories of nearly all cultures that practice the magical arts. It was commonplace before people worked out that you could use the power within oneself for most things, and far less messily. After that, it was used for the great workings – ones that required more energy that any one person could summon – such as Necromancy. That's always been the tenuous distinction between Life-Chasing and Necromancy. Life-Chasing involves a natural death – in practice, it's someone who is otherwise strong – a m…wounded warrior, for instance – and using that person's own life-energy to restore them. Classic Necromancy uses somebody else's. It's always been dubious, as Life-Chasing can involve the Chaser exchanging their own life, or that of another, if they're linked, for the Chasee, for example, but it's a pretty little fiction we all cling to." 

"Linked?" Kalasin asked. 

"When some people share their Gifts – twins can, allegedly – though Kay and I have never tried. Some couples…" he looked thoughtful. "I think we might be able to, a little, sometimes" 

"When?" Kalasin asked. She certainly couldn't remember anything of the sort. 

"Well, you were a bit busy – you know, when Lillias was born?" 

She remembered holding his hand, tight enough to leave bruises, her shields shredded to bits by the pain, and his light, tentative, touch on her mind, then a blessed, though only temporary decrease in the agony. It increased again, almost beyond bearing, and she had spiralled into the darkness before she found herself suddenly feeling only extremely sore, and her ears assaulted with the sound of screaming baby. She had been too relieved to question it at the time, and afterwards they had been too preoccupied with their daughter to discuss it, so she had not brought the subject up. 

Yevgen spoke again, sounding slightly embarrassed, "I know that drawing off pain by itself doesn't necessarily mean a strong bond in the magical sense, but for a second or two, I think I was able to use your Healing Gift on you." He snorted. "Of course, being the complete idiot I am, I had no idea what I was doing, and as a consequence, I let go of your hand," - while drawing off pain wasn't a particularly difficult task, it did need physical contract - "and when I got hold of you again I was more concerned with getting to the pain instead." 

It was a startling revelation. She had always been taught that no one could use one's Gift but oneself. Yevgen's suspicions were surprising, to say the least. It was something that needed further investigation. She had seen the term 'linked' before – though not in the context of childbirth itself, but something connected to it that was very relevant – briefly used in an Imperial glossary of magical terms that Yevgen had lent her. It was going to be an interesting theory to explore. It was a pity that only such a worrying circumstance had brought her attention to it.   
  
  
  



	5. Expert Opinions

  
Expert Opinions

The tawny barb thundered into the courtyard of Rhemuth Castle, its rider's face noble and dignified, but weary from days of hard travel. Lord Rasoul ibn Tarik, King Liam-Lajos II's trusted advisor and a natural showman, dismounted with less than his usual dramatics and strode up the steps to the Great Hall, his twenty Moorish guards at his back, and his usual spotted shadow, the cheetah Kisah, flowing at his side. 

He was greeted warmly by the Duke of Corwyn, and then ushered away to more private surrounds, while his bodyguard did whatever it was that bodyguards did when their charge went into a private meeting. Torenth's exotic Moorish ambassador was a frequent enough guest to raise no more than a ripple in the castle's inhabitants, though most gave him a wide berth. He was a powerful Deryni, and a noted scholar. 

"Yes, my lord has also felt such disturbances in his land," he began bluntly almost as soon as they were seated. 

As was her habit, Kisah had Dhugal on the cold stone floor, giving him a thorough bath. Dhugal had an uncanny knack with animals – one of the biggest indicators of the nature of Deryni abilities for the Imperial delegation – and Kisah adored him. 

"They are most severe in the south, near the mountains that stretch from Tralia to Arjenol." He produced a map and traced the relevant region with a long finger. "There have been reports of panic, of many Deryni, particularly the young or untrained falling ill." Rasoul shook his head. "There are few who can call those highlands home. Barren, wild and harsh, they are no place for any man but for those who love them with all their souls. There were once a few nomadic tribes who wandered there, the Doi and the K'mir, but the K'mir clans who once roamed there were wiped out in two decades of civil war with the Saren lowlanders to the south, and Doi, who are a peaceful people, have fled further east." 

"Who rules it?" Dhugal asked, curious, as soon as Kisah allowed him to get up. 

Rasoul gave a liquid shrug. "Nobody, if they have any sense. It's wild and virtually uninhabited, scarcely worth the bother. In centuries past, my lord's people and the Saren have let it be merely the border between our lands, and left it to the tribes who inhabited it, so long as the trade-passes were free." 

"But the civil war's been over for three years," Duncan pointed out, "and Sarain has been annexed by a new power. I doubt they'd be so complacent about their borders." 

"True, and true my lord Bishop," Rasoul gracefully inclined his head in the direction of the clergyman. "But there were never many in the border regions, and now there are fewer still. It would be impossible for any force to cross the mountains without being noticed. The Empire has taken the example of their predecessors and not bothered overmuch with their northern regions save to ensure that there is a measure of stability and safety for the trade caravans." A brief, slightly disapproving tone crept into his voice, "There has been some increase in the exchange of goods between our two lands since the annexation of Sarain, which holds the majority of the mountain passes. My Lady Morag had a fine appreciation for their silks and porcelain," he added, referring to Liam-Lajos's late mother and former regent, the Dowager Duchess of Arjenol, and sister to the late King Wencit of Torenth. 

"Do you think that Sarain might be involved, my lord?" Morgan asked courteously. 

Rasoul paused for a moment, though he must have considered the question many times in the past. "The source of this…disturbance…is well within the bounds of the mountains that Sarain has traditionally patrolled, and where new mountain roads and highways are being built by the new regime, it is true, but I doubt that King Yevgen would be personally involved." He met the slightly startled glances around the table. "I had the honour of meeting his Majesty early last winter when he and my lord concluded some treaties and border agreements. Unfortunately, the meeting was necessarily brief, for his Majesty was most anxious to return to the capital, as his Queen was expecting their first child." 

"What's he like?" Dhugal blurted out, still occupied with the besotted Kisah. 

Rasoul replied with the tone of a man well used to judging young men. "His Majesty of Sarain? Young. Twenty, twenty-five at most. Very sure of himself, and a great deal more intelligent than he would like his neighbours to believe. Articulate. A good hand on a horse, a leader of men and armies. He is not dissimilar to you, my lord." This last was directed at Kelson, who was growing increasing curious about his counterpart with each sketchy report. Rasoul shook his head. "No, I would very much doubt that King Yevgen would countenance such far-reaching disturbances. He is not minded to waste his resources on those of no importance. No, the King of Sarain is not one who will declare war on any on a mere whim. For him, the poison bottle, the dagger in the dark, the arrow on the hunt. It is not a power surge that reaches across a continent. One man perhaps, but not so many."   
  


"…and so probably Liam of Torenth has no idea what hit him either. They're all running around up there like headless chickens." Kalasin went through the last of their hefty stack of correspondence from the intricate network of Imperial spies and informers, not to mention their own eyes and ears abroad. 

"Just as well. I rather liked the little brat," 

"Yevgen!" 

"Well, he was," Yevgen insisted, flexing his fingers slightly, cramped from long hours of paperwork. He looked at the large pile of parchment before him, and, sighing, switched the pen to his other hand (like most knights, he was ambidextrous by long practice). "Simple, these northern barbarians, thinking only of war, wine, and women, not necessarily in that order. Even the most liberal of them make the Marenite conservatives look like radicals in comparison. They make our conservatives look almost civilised." Actually, they had encountered far less opposition from the conservatives as they had thought – largely as those who could not at least accept Imperial dominion found that had no dominions of their own. To refuse change in the wildfire political landscape that was Sarain was to invite disaster. 

It was practicality at first that had allied them to the new regime. Now, it seemed to be more than mere survival – now, it was grudging respect, reluctant, but dogged loyalty, and, among a few, love for their new monarchs. For, in three years of rule, there had been peace, and prosperity, and a pair of charismatic, romantic young rulers who were very easy to love. 

Three years that had seen almost unimaginable harmony between all Sarain's discordant racial groups that even a few years before that would have had even the most optimistic observer rolling on the floor in gales of laughter. Three years, all too short for such a troubled land. Three years, which was all they might have if they didn't remove the problem of the blood-mage on their most inhospitable border quickly.   


It hungered. It thirsted. It didn't have a great command of grammar, but its worshipers weren't exactly of a literary bent. High in the mountains, far from life, it grew impatient. He who summoned it grew worried. It had been exceedingly difficult to transport the sacrifices so far across the mountains, weakened and desperate though the victims were. There were no more slave-markets in Sarain. The King and Queen had been clear on that, so there was no easy source for more sacrifices even if they were to come down from the mountains. There had been no wars in the Empire for decades, the only incidence when slave taking was permitted, and even then it was a Diadem monopoly, one that had long since fallen into disuse. 

There were still some more in the pens carved into the rock, of course, some finally becoming aware of their surroundings, but most slowly going mad. Their screams and cries for mercy echoed around the damp caves. 

Screams and cries that remained unheeded. 

Screams and cries that would soon fade into the rock.   
  


The K'mir clans, if they didn't exactly submit to, at least accepted the authority of the new Saren royals. Rather, they accepted Kalasin for her mother's and grandmother's sakes, and they accepted Yevgen for hers. Neither particularly bothered with the precise reasons. What mattered was that the clans no longer raided the lowlanders, and any lowlanders seeking to raise tensions with their mountain neighbours felt the full force of royal displeasure. While there would not exactly be joint village festivals between the two groups for a few more years yet, there was trade between them, and the clan chiefs could sit in Council with the Saren nobles, and feast together in the same hall, if at opposite ends of the table, with the Imperials separating them. 

Now, of course, the bond was cemented further with the birth of Lillias the heir-presumptive. The K'mir had no prejudice against women in authority – indeed, they were a matriarchal people themselves, causing a few of the more intellectual among the Imperial garrison to speculate that they might have migrated west from the Empire's own wild mountains – unlike the Saren, who held to the strictures in the Book of Glass that forbade female rulers. 

Most of those who held to the strictures, however, quickly found themselves adjusting their opinions to say that while there could not be a female Warlord, but that a Queen Reagent was perfectly acceptable. And since the title of Warlord was no longer being used, but rather those of King or Queen, the old traditions were rather irrelevant, were they not? 

There hadn't even all been that much steel involved. Yevgen had been ridiculously impressed with his eloquence. 

The K'mir clans had been most impressed with the choice of the new name for the ruling family. A corrupted form, it was true, but it paid homage to one of the bravest and most honourable of the clans, the Hau Ma, butchered to the last child during the civil wars. The addition of parts of her parents' names only partially satisfied the more conservative nobles, who found themselves much more amenable to young parents' whims after a significant cleared throat or two. 

But the news that they brought was grim. Panic was starting to spread in the mountains, fanned by rumours of dark spirits disturbed by a distant earthquake (it was the quickest lie that Yevgen and Kalaisn could think of – and it had been believed – or at least, people made themselves believe it).   
  


"Have you got it all?" Benazai was blunt as soon as her protégé opened the front door of her elegant townhouse. The servants (and there had to be some, in such an immaculate residence) were either extremely discreet and loyal, or had been given the night off. Probably both, but at any rate, they seemed to be the only two in the house. 

Radanae looked insulted that her teacher would doubt her abilities. The scion of the Gavrillian family no longer lived in the family suite in the Imperial Palace proper, thinking it too cramped for her purposes, and rather lacking in privacy (though she had no objection staying there after a Palace function). Instead, she had selected a reasonably modest townhouse in a fashionable part of the city, close to shops, restaurants and other amenities, and very much a real-estate agent's dream. 

"Of course,' she sniffed, leading the way to her spacious library, already bulging with books in wall-height bookshelves. There are certain advantages of practically unlimited coffers, and coming from a family with significant interests in the publishing trade. Gavrillians were entrepreneurs as well as warriors (for, to be blunt, fighting is glamorous, but hardly lucrative) and the present generation were reaping the full advantage of a far-sighted ancestor's investments into the printing press, and later, moveable type. Since literacy was virtually universal throughout the Empire, and had been for nearly a century and a half, they had no shortage of a market, especially when printed texts were not only cheaper, but far more reliable than the offerings from the traditional scriptoriums. There was a long table in the middle of the room, with neat piles of paper and folders organised in some arcane system that was certainly never taught at the Academy or in the Service. Some people are born administrators, and Radanae was one. Benazai was not at all surprised to see compartmentalised trays for inks and pens, and little sticky notes. 

"I've sent to the Academy, the University, the Healing Colleges, and everywhere else that even remotely deals in magic," she informed her superior as soon as they were seated with cups of tea, "I even went into the Blessed Way and had a talk with a few of the orders there that practice magic. Subtly, of course. Most were all too willing to talk to me once they found who I was." 

Unusual – most knights were agnostics, if not actually atheists – and few would think to consult a theologian on matters of such importance. 

"They're surprisingly efficient," Radanae was continuing, "everyone's trying to be the first to publish the definitive theory, I suppose, and there are as many theories on the incident as there are so-called experts, but there is one common thread. There's no diplomatic way to say it, Dama, even with the training you've given me. We've more than a blood mage on our hands, though that's bad enough. We've got a blood mage summoning a blood wraith." 

A moment of silence. For second, even the unflappable intelligence chief looked a trifle frightened. Her protégé didn't think any less of her – when she had come to the conclusion, she knew that her hands had been shaking. No one had been so foolish to raise a blood wraith in a thousand years and more, and for good reason, even when blood magic had been, if not exactly accepted, at least openly present and acknowledged. 

"So." The older woman's voice spoke volumes. 

"Exactly." Radanae agreed. "If we thought the Immortals ten years ago were bad…that would be a stuffed toy bears' picnic with faeries if we don't find that mage, and that wraith soon, and destroy them both before it gets any stronger." 

"The hard part is doing it without panicking people," Benazai sighed. "Blood wraiths are so entrenched into the mythology of all the older faiths that it's going to be very hard to convince people that it's not the manifestation of all their nightmares." She finished her tea abruptly and then stood up. "Get your coat. It's windy outside and it's a long way to the Palace even in the carriage. This needs to be dealt with urgently." 

"Sarain?" Radanae was not at all happy, but went and picked up a knee-length, silk lined overcoat of light wool – the latest fashion. She grimaced at her superior's slight nod. "That's the third time over the Roof in three years. I don't know why I don't just buy a place over there…hang on, that's not such a bad idea…property in the capital is ridiculously underpriced, and that little valley the Summer Palace is in is really very pretty. I wonder if adventure tourism in those mountains would take off…" 

Benazai was staring at the younger woman with an expression bordering on sheer disbelief. The world was about to be devoured by a gluttonous being that nobody was even sure how to remove, and she was speculating on her investment portfolio? 

"Sorry," Radanae muttered, not at all apologetically as she caught Benazai's expression. "Force of habit." 

Benazai snorted as they went out of the room, Radanae conscientiously blowing out the lamps as they went. "For your information, I think this is urgent enough that you won't be going over the Roof literally." 

Radanae stopped in mid stride, and whipped around in shock. 

"That's right. I think you qualify for a Gate." 

The gravity of the honour did not exactly fill the heiress of the House of Gavrillian with undying gratitude. If fact, the Head of the Intelligence Service thought wryly, the young knight seemed to be closer to homicidal rage.   
  


"I'll go." The short K'mir was blunt. Buri sat across from the Queen, re-reading the rather tersely written letter of request that had sped across the continent all the way from Bersone. She shrugged. "Not as though there's anything here that Evin Larse can't handle, and it's quite true that there's literally no-one alive who knows those mountains." She looked up, face creased with worry. "We'll need to leave as soon as possible, or we won't make a difference by the time we arrive. Do I get Numair to trawl through all the mages to see if any of them can be remotely useful?" 

Thayet nodded as her old friend and guard left the room. After so many decades of bloodshed, was Sarain never to be permitted to live in peace? No wars, now, and most of the Immortals gone – but now – something even more deadly than an Immortal. A being that could not be killed, because it was not, in fact, alive.   
  
  


_More Notes: As people may have noticed, there are a lot of characters milling around in this swiftly-turning-into-epic. Some will have to take supporting or even cameo roles so that the story doesn't become bogged down in endless introductions, scene jumping and big crowd scenes. This is just a quick poll to see which of my original characters people would like to see more of/miss the most (Yevgen sort of has to have a fairly big role in this, not only because he and Kelson, Dhugal et al have to get into an alpha-male contest with Liam trying desperately to emulate them, with only limited success, apologies to people who don't like him): So, who would people miss the most?___

_a) Radanae_   
_b) Berenice (Kay)_   
_c) Rislyn_   
_d) Justinia_   
_e) Noor_   
_f) Kelvar (and the Lianne subplot)_   
_g) Natseyah (Samash, and Maren)_   
_h) Hypathia Lansherry (and the diplomats)_   
_i) Benazai (and the spies)_   
_j) Other___

_PS. If you're impatient to know what a 'Gate' is, I'm using it in the same context that Mercedes Lackey does in her Valdemar novels, largely as I wanted something distinctly different from the 'Portals' in the Deryni series. No crossover is complete without some big cultural differences. Usual disclaimers for the name and the manner in which it is used._   
__


	6. VignettesBefore the Storm

Chapter 6

_Author's Notes: Argh! Chapter 6 and the two bunches of characters haven't met yet? I must be losing my touch. Oh well, this part's a bit rushed, but, then again, so are the characters. Enjoy!_

Vignettes/Before the Storm 

Ethereal fingers stretched into the quivering body and roughly pulled out the still-beating heart, their grace a grotesque parody of the movements of the benevolent spirits that made up the foundation of the original Imperial religion. Gods, priests, and shrines had been imported from their captured territories. The original beliefs of the Imperials needed no such things – spirits of water, of fire, of metal, of earth, of air, of life – what need did they have of grand palaces and devoted servants? All they ever desired was for mortals to live their lives in the world as they chose, to do what good they could and to leave it better than they found it. Most didn't even mind if they were acknowledged or not. None wanted veneration, worship or sacrifice. 

None save this. More solid now, the wraith glowed a dull, angry red, not unlike a rather annoyed thundercloud, with all the cumulated resentment of a millennia spent in oblivion. The summoner's hold was weakening, but still effective. 

It struggled mightily against the bonds laid there by the spell of summoning, unable to break them, but certainly strained the one who thought to rule it. 

Time. It was only a matter of time.   
  


There was less time than those racing towards Sarain from opposite ends of the huge continent were easy with. There were few mages whose knowledge was of any relevance, even fewer who could travel at the speed of the Commander of the Queen's Riders, and, in the end, only a handful who could also remain discreet about the nature of their hastily-planned 'field trip' to Sarain. The official story let out by the King and Queen, and by Harailt of Aili, Dean of the Royal University, was the discovery of what appeared to be an ancient burial ground of strange creatures and early humans in Sarain, revealed by an eroding cliff-face. The urgency of the mission was said to be due to the unstable nature of the cliff, which was liable to crumble at any moment, and also because there would also be experts from the Imperial University of Bersone there to examine the artefacts, and to exchange ideas with whichever academics might chose to visit. A clumsy story, but all who knew the truth of the matter wished even more fervently than usual that their subterfuge would not be revealed. 

Accompanying them east was a young woman, though Gifted, none would have thought would be interested in old graves, though few these days would gainsay the Princess Lianne of Conté. Since the death of her technical husband, Maggur Rathhusak the so-called King of Scanra, there had been a notable dearth of marriage enquiries for the young widow, and even the more irritating members of the Tortallan Royal Council had stopped haranguing her about her status. 

To nobody's surprise, the young man who seemed to be fleetingly unconcerned about the high mortality rates in males matrimonially connected to the Princess also expressed an interest in travelling east towards his homeland. It even looked as though he almost had a reason not connected to the Princess Lianne for going, as his official superior gave him a few sealed messages to take with him. 

However, only a fool would think that Sir Kelvar Gavrillian would ever do anything he didn't want to, orders, oaths or no.   
  


It took longer for another Princess and her escort to get ready, if only because it was a much larger party. While armies, even those as large, well trained, and well-equipped as the Imperial Legions seldom concerned a blood wraith, blood mages had an unfortunate historical tendency to be rather charismatic individuals, who gathered large followings who could collectively be almost as much of a disturbance as the wraiths. Intelligence reports stated no such large following, but neither Rislyn nor the members of her Council who she chose to inform of the matter were taking any chances. 

They had not had any reports of blood magic before the surge of power brought what few strong mages they had to their knees, after all. For once, the rarity of strong Gifts in the Empire proved to be a blessing rather than the inconvenience it usually was, as due to the distance from the source of the disturbance, comparatively few had felt the short, but painful force. Those unfamiliar with blood magic – that is, nearly all – managed to pass it off as simply overwork or indigestion, if only to comfort themselves. Luckily, those who could identify it definitively were not inclined to publicise their conclusions to the voracious media outlets in Bersone or the other major cities, especially after _inquiries_ from the various government agencies regarding the nature of the disturbance. 

A decent chunk of Kay's personal force was to go west to Sarain – about a legion, with their support staff – more than enough to placate a small province, certainly enough for the usual rag-tag army that religious enthusiasts could gather. They could be relied upon to keep their heads in a fight (both figuratively and literally), and their mouths shut if they saw anything not mentioned in the training manuals. The Imperial Heir was hugely popular in the military, and those in her personal command looked upon the princess with a sort of possessive pride.   
  


Packing lightly was a concept that Radanae had left behind with her short-lived military career. The mages who were to construct the Gate that would take her to the Saren capital with what help the Imperials could offer immediately had been quite firm on her luggage restrictions. 

Which meant she was now in the middle of her rather large bedroom, swearing profusely as she tried to stuff her belongings around the assorted grimores, scrolls, books and miscellaneous bits of paper that various experts had thought might be useful into the trunk that the mages had specified as the absolute maximum. 

Unlike the majority of knights her age, Radanae could actually afford the full 'textbook' armoury, and though she rarely used any of it in earnest, she was not pleased to have to chose which parts were to travel separately to a potential war zone (i.e., anywhere). Eventually, she had to be content with chain mail shirt, leggings, plain helm, three swords, assorted knives and daggers, her shield, and her favourite bow. The rest could be scrounged from the Saren armoury, or borrowed from members of the garrison there, if it did not arrive in time. At any rate, she did not intend to be in a position where she would need to use any of it, but she knew enough about the world to know that intention is a very different thing to reality. She had just managed to stuff the final item of clothing into the trunk and force the lid closed by sheer strength when Benazai Urraca appeared in the door. 

"Ready?" the Intelligence Chief asked, with a raised eyebrow as porters came to carry the trunk to the warded room in the Imperial University. 

"No, but that's not going to stop you," Radanae snapped as swung her coat around her shoulders. "You're determined to send me off on this, aren't you?" 

"Of course." 

"Aren't you even going to tell me why? There are hundreds just as qualified. Don't expect me to believe I got this gig on merit alone." 

"You underrate yourself, 'Danae'," Benazai allowed a trace of affection to creep into her voice. "You're good at this business. There are so few who are." She paused, and looked around the room before lowering her voice. "And you'll be a far greater diplomat, stateswoman and spy than you'll ever be Empress. You know what will happen if this leaks out. If there's…instability…I need Kay, I need Lizzie, I need all the knighted female cousins except maybe Ingridine out of the heartlands. Gods alone know why, but the Delamarans are a fearfully talented bunch at the moment, and Rislyn shouldn't do without even one. And she needs you out of reach too. You're going to be extremely important – even more than you are already – to her – but matters aren't helped that you'd have more support even than a few of the cousins for the Diadem." 

"A technicality," Radanae scoffed, brushing off the intimation. 

"A technicality." Benazai agreed, as they left the room, "but technicalities make or break the law. Like it or not, you're literally a Daughter born in the Imperial House, you're a knight, and you've a claim as good as any. Better than some of the cousins, even though you're not even distantly related to the Delmarans. So believe me in this 'Danae. Go to Sarain. Find this blood wraith. And destroy it. For the Empire's sake…" she trailed off, knowing her pupil would understand. 

Their eyes met. Radanae nodded as they descended the stairs to her mosaic-tiled foyer and then onto the bustling street aside. She understood all too well. More than distant provinces, more than Empires were at stake. Her own future was on the line too. For if a blood wraith would wreck its havoc upon the Empire, the first to fall would be the Empress and her line, and there would be a catastrophic vacuum in the government. It was obvious who was going to have to fill it, if the Empire was to survive, whether they liked it or not. 

Some people play dangerous games in order to lay their hands on a crown. Radanae Gavrillian was someone who would dare far more to make sure that she never did.   
  


It had finally overpowered its weakening master. Gorging itself on those who once worshipped it in the hope of gaining power, it tore from the caves, hungry for sustenance, hungry for power, as its empty-eyed slaves hovered in a half-death, obedient to its every whim. 

Hungry for death. 

But even now, it was not yet at full strength. Only in the darkness of moonless night could it travel – light pained it, and fire sent it into throes of agony. But as time passed, it could travel further each night before it returned to the caves, to the consecrated stones that had been its path into this plane. 

Soon it would not need to return at all. Soon, it would be strong enough to light the darkness with its own power, strong enough to mock the sun and its powerful rays. 

Strong enough to rule the world.   
  


Luckily, news travelled slowly from Torenth to Gwynedd, or else Kelson feared he might very much have sheer anarchy on his hands. There had been much use of the Portals between the royal Palaces of Beldour (King Liam's capital) and Rhemuth in the past few days and weeks, as the magnitude of the disaster on the young King's hands grew more and more apparent. 

Every night, something was entering the isolated mountain villages. More than that, something – or someone – was systematically slaughtering everything in it, down to the very chickens in their pens, the dogs in their kennels. It was not mere mountain bandits – though they alone would have been trouble enough for the young King – for what bandit band would leave the few valuables these mountain folk had? And…what mountain band would drain all its victims of blood, leaving not even enough to stain the rocky ground. 

Whatever it was, each night, it travelled a little further, a little lower on the slopes, killing a few more each night. 

An inhuman enemy, then, they all agreed. Only this time they meant it quite literally.   
  
  


Communications were much faster in the Imperial outpost that was Sarain, but that didn't ease things one bit. Luckily, the Saren side of the mountains were more sparsely populated than the Torenthi, so the blood wraith had evidently not thought it worth the bother. To be on the safe side though, the King and Queen trotted out the old story about earthquakes and unstable ground and issued orders for whoever lived in the mountains to move to villages on the lowlands temporarily. They both knew that such a measure could only be as temporary as the move in quelling the wraith. 

The Gate seemed to shake the very Palace to its foundations, though later, they realised that the effect had been confined to the Library, where the construct was built. It was the collaborative work of five mages from the Imperial University, all of whom would be in bed with hot drinks for a week afterwards. In the old days, a single mage could have constructed one and still been hale enough on the other side to fend off a physical attack with a battle-axe, but those days had long passed, as everyone was fond of saying. So in this day and age, the Gate-spell was used only in times of great emergency. 

This counted. 

A swirling archway of blues and reds, it trilled and shimmered on the library floor. Suddenly, and with a distinct lack of grace, a no-nonsense travelling trunk, bound strongly with iron was flung through by sheer force, followed by a very ill-looking diplomat/spy/knight who didn't even wait until the Gate had spiralled shut behind her before dropping to her knees on the wood floor and calling for a bucket. 

Nobody retches elegantly, not even Radanae Gavrillian, so the description is hardly necessary. At any rate, the usual effects of Gate-travel having taken their toll, the trunk was opened and the texts within examined by the King and Queen of Sarain, together with Noor al-Jedin, who had stayed behind to 'update the map collection' after the rest of the Gwynedd delegation had returned to make their reports. In reality, she was their best source on the etiquette and genealogies of the Eleven Kingdoms, which, to the Imperials was a place of great mystery and daring, but not one which they tended to pay much attention to, or write very detailed books about. 

Radanae joined them after taking the (extremely small, for her) bags of her personal effects to her usual suite. 

"Nothing in the capital, thanks be," she said, as she flopped into a chair accepting a mug of tea with muttered thanks. Her second time through a Gate did not make her change her first impressions of the devices. "Almost everyone who felt it has convinced themselves that it was either an accident by someone untrained, or merely some earthquake or civil disturbance somewhere that they're not terribly interested in. Luckily, wraiths are buried so deeply in our mythologies that many of those who could recognise it simply haven't considered the possibility, which is all to the better." 

Yevgen understood her implications, even though Kally tilted her head slightly. "The Diadem," he explained shortly. "Every time there's even a hint of instability, people look to the Empress. Or to alternatives. Rislyn's lack of a military record is being given a ridiculous amount of attention, considering we haven't fought a full-scale war in nearly half a century. How many of you should I expect?" the question was directed at Radanae. 

"Me, obviously, Kay, once she gets the mountain-specialists together, Lizzie…that should be it for now – having us all in the one place would sort of defy the point of getting us all out of the capital." 

"Us?" Kally frowned. As far as she knew, the Gavrillians weren't closely related to the Delmarans – at least, not in the maternal lines, which was the more important lineage by Imperial reckoning – there was more certainty in knowing who your mother was than your father, after all. 

"Knights, under the age of about forty, who have a claim – usually through an unbroken maternal line to a reigning Empress. Preferably female, but Emperors aren't unknown, just short-lived." Radanae explained reluctantly. "Yes, I've a claim. A technicality," Radanae answered the unspoken question. "Historically, we were reluctant to adopt the whole hereditary-ruler system, because we felt that with the Senate and elected officers we'd at least have a consistent level of mediocrity, rather than the sort of hit-and-miss affair one gets in monarchies. One's as likely to get an idiot as a genius, after all. So, in order to get some sort of agreement, the actual wording of the act that established the dynasty is that an Empress has to be 'born in the Imperial House'. There hasn't been any real problems with that…well, until me." She gave a rueful smile. "I'm scion of House Gavrillian, it's true, but I was literally born in the Imperial House – the Palace. Mother was in a conference with Vanaria – they say it was a Council of War – but since there wasn't so much as a skirmish on at the time, it was more likely two old friends having a quiet supper and a chat about their respective pregnancies – when I made it very clear I wanted to get into the world right then and there, thank you very much." She paused, and shook her head. "If I knew how much trouble I would have waited until mother got home, but, that can't be helped. At any rate, if we don't deal with this soon, there are going to be too many people looking for alternative Empresses. Ris wants to make sure all the best candidates are far out of easy reach for any plotters." 

"You?" 

Radanae laughed. "No, of course not. I'm very much a last resort, a technicality, only to be attempted if all the real Delmaran princesses – and prince," she added, nodding to Yevgen, though it was obvious that he was not in the practical consideration, "- say no. The most obvious rival is Kay, of course, but she tends to scare the court butterflies so the others have been scattered east and south." 

There was a pause, before Noor cleared her throat significantly and motioned to the large map on the library table. There were little coloured pins stuck in various places on the Torenthi side of the northern mountain range, each pin representing a village, each colour a night where the wraith had struck, draining the blood out of every single living creature there. 

"It's moving quickly," she said grimly, "We're fortunate that there aren't many people even on the other side, or we'd have had panic by now. Torenth doesn't have a postal service, and since it's not trader-season, the news isn't travelling as fast as it is." 

"How long do we have until it reaches populated areas?" Yevgen asked. 

"In Torenth, at this rate, about a week." Noor had meticulously calculated the rate of the wraith's advance. 

"And then?" Kally didn't really want to hear the answer. 

"Then?" Noor shrugged. "Then, it won't really matter anymore."   
  
  


Prince Azim ar-Rafiq, Preceptor of the Knights of the Anvil, brother of the Emir of Nur Hallaj, and a powerful Deryni made no secret of his wariness as he handled the opened letter. 

"There is no doubt that such an explanation for the disturbance is certainly plausible," he began, looking around the table in Kelson's private quarters. "But it is simply unheard of for the Empire to make such an approach unless they genuinely felt that they could not solve this problem by themselves – unusual in itself. They have shown absolutely no interest in the Eleven Kingdoms until very recently – though there have been suggestions that some of the Michaeline Knights fled into Sarain and then into the Empire when we were expelled from Gwynedd some two hundred years ago," he paused, "Though I fear those were most likely fanciful tales we who made it Djellarda spun to account for our brethren who did not join us there." 

"That is all very well, my lord, but it is my people that this…thing…has been slaughtering," young King Liam spoke up hotly. The letter had arrived on his desk only hours ago, accompanied by a precisely drawn map indicating the villages where the so-called 'wraith' had struck. Liam was most acutely aware that his previous information – which had been alarming enough – barely covered half the number so politely detailed by his neighbour. Accompanied by Lord Rasoul, the Torenthi King had been on a knife-edge ever since he had brought the letter to consult with his overlord. 

"They are, and I apologise for my digression, sire," Azim nodded slightly. Rothana's uncle, teacher of magics to the Duchess Richenda and countless other young Deryni, and member of the Camberian Council (which sought to govern Deryni in the Eleven Kingdoms – with varying degrees of success), he had arrived not a day ago in response to the urgent requests of the King of Gwynedd. 

"Noor al-Jedin was with the Imperial delegation who were here recently," Richenda reminded everyone. "Could she have suggested this?" 

Rasoul stiffened, while Azim looked notably alarmed. "Noor bint Ali al-Jedin?" 

"Yes," it was Rothana who answered him this time. "Noor – the one who was always falling over, breaking things and getting into fights." 

"I knew I should have advised them against sending her," Lord Rasoul muttered, half to himself. "Noor had enormous potential – but Ali insisted on sending her east over my suggestions." 

"So she's Deryni?" Denis Arilian looked a trifle worried. 

Rasoul coughed, and looked slightly embarrassed. "She is my sister's daughter," he explained, then glanced at Azim. 

Rothana' uncle took pity on his fellow adept, and looked up at Arilian, staring his fellow Councillor full in the face. "Yes. Of course, you wouldn't have been able to detect her with the usual examination. The al-Jedins always have exceptional shields, and the Imperials are very close about their training methods. But back to the topic, I think it very likely that she would have been involved in this letter – especially with these titles." True enough, all of Liam's and Kelson's titles (the two men the letter was addressed to) were neatly acknowledged, even the ones that they themselves seldom used. 

"So, you think we should reply?" Morgan indicated the letter that still hung loosely from Azim's hand. 

"I think it very imprudent if we were _not_ to send some sort of reply," Azim answered, then studied the letter further. "It is not far from Beldour to the mountains. This 'Summer Palace' that King Yevgen refers to here is not far from the border. It's much closer to Beldour than his own capital, to tell the truth." 

"Have you been there, my lord?" Dhugal asked, curious. 

Azim nodded slightly. "Once – many years ago – when it was the Summer Palace of the Wilima Warlords, before the civil wars. It was – and still is, in my memory – the most perfect example of a defensive mountain castle. You could hold out for five years there with five men there if you chose." 

Lord Rasoul, who was an enthusiastic architect, brightened up at the older man's almost wistful reminiscings, but forced himself back to the subject at hand. He was more lively now that the subject of his niece had finished. "A blood wraith? An immortal being that feeds on the blood and lives of men and animals? How do we even begin to fight such a thing?" 

"I don't know," Azim said simply. For the first time, Kelson saw a trace of resignation around the powerful Deryni. "This…thing…is unknown to the Knights of the Anvil. It is even unknown in the oldest of our Deryni texts, though some do speak of a 'power gained through forbidden means,'" Arilian stared at his fellow Councillor in shock, as though the adept had disclosed some great secret. Azim shot his colleague a withering glance. "It's not as though we've even solid information on that that means is, let alone what it would entail." 

Silence settled down on the table. 

"As I see it, my lords and ladies," King Liam said what they were all thinking, "we have little choice in the matter. Lord Rasoul and I can return to Beldour by Portal directly, and then ride to the border and the King's Summer Palace for this conference he requests." 

"Wait at Beldour for us before you leave," Kelson told his young vassal, then, to the astonished faces around the table, explained "the letter is addressed to both of us, and Yevgen invites both of us to his Palace," He conveniently ignored the signature of Queen Kalasin on the missive. "And as you say, we have little choice if we wish to deal with this …thing." He paused, and, to everyone's astonishment, the very corners of Kelson's mouth titled slightly upwards in the closest approximation he had come to a smile in months. "Besides, as your overlord and friend, it is my duty to look to your interests and those of Torenth. This may not be as immediate an issue as the…blood wraith…but you'll notice on this map, Sarain has drawn the border a good two miles closer to Torenth than it is on our maps." 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. The Summer PalaceMeetings

The Summer Palace/Meetings

Much to Kelson's surprise, there was no chapel in the Saren Summer Palace, but a confused servant directed the King of Gwynedd to a pavilion in the extensive terraced gardens, once Kelson had laboriously explained what a chapel was. 

They had just arrived in the high eagle's perch that was the Summer Palace, and Kelson felt the need for a little quiet. King Yevgen had not arrived yet, or so they were told by the major domo and steward of this remote retreat, but he welcomed them and bade them be comfortable. 

It was certainly a very comfortable place, the interior belied very much by the harsh granite of its outer walls. Prince Azim had been right. The outside of the castle was the perfect defensive fort – but once inside… 

Inside, the luxury took even Liam's breath away. Floors of marble and mosaic or immaculately laid woods, soft carpets woven in rich wools and silks. Walls plastered and painted with the utmost care or hung with intricate tapestries. The guest suites they had been assigned made even the Royal Palaces in Rhemuth or Beldour look like the meanest serf's hovel. Even the terraced garden where Kelson now stood had been tended with meticulous care, each flower, each young tree showing the love that had gone into its tending. 

For there was love there, in every stone of the castle, in every crevice, in every blade of grass. The servants here were clearly devoted to their master, and only made Kelson more curious about his mysterious contemporary. 

It had been surprisingly easy to get away from Rhemuth, even with the very feeble excuse of an extended hunting trip. To tell the truth, most of the Court was only too glad to see their King take an interest in anything other than his duties. Kelson had not noticed how his own gloom had hung heavy over his court. Aside from his two sons, there had been precious little joy for the King since his wife had died. 

Araxie…even after all these months, her name was still an open wound upon his heart and his soul. Not the burning, searing, agony of those first few days, when everything around him had brought up images of her face, nor even the dull, throbbing pain of the weeks and months that followed, but it hurt nonetheless. He shook his head to clear the painful memories. Araxie would have loved this garden. She would have exclaimed over the beautiful swirling marble that was inlaid in the reception rooms of the guest wing. She would have asked Yevgen's Queen the recipe of the heady scented soap that was provided next to every basin and ewer, questioned the steward about the ingenious system of copper pipes that brought running water into the Palace itself. 

He shook his head to rid himself of his fanciful imaginings. After the usual preparations, it had been a simple task to deputise his Uncle Nigel to take care of things in Rhemuth while he was away, and to ask his Aunt Meraude to continue to care of his sons – tasks that both the Prince and his wife were well used to – and to arrange this unexpected adventure. 

It was obvious who would accompany him. Morgan, of course, the shadow who was never very far from the King's side, and Duncan. Dhugal would not hear of letting his King travel to such a dangerous place without his foster-brother. Rothana, despite strenuous protestations, mostly regarding her relationship to one Imperial, remained behind, their contact with Nigel should things go seriously awry. To Kelson's own surprise (though very hastily masked), Richenda insisted on joining the party, and (to Kelson's further astonishment) her husband made no objection, and her former teacher, Prince Azim, actively encourage her, so long as she felt confident about the difficult journey on horseback up into the mountains. Prince Azim himself, of course, for he was somewhat familiar with the region. Kelson allowed no one else to come, much to the objections of the rest of his council. 

Of all his councillors, King Liam took only Lord Rasoul, in reality the only advisor he trusted except for his favourite uncle, Count Matyas (though an Imperial commentator might have snorted that it wasn't a spectacularly difficult contest to be Liam's favourite uncle), who had remained behind in Beldour to oversee the others. They were competent enough men, they knew, but Liam had been scarcely more than a year on the throne, and had not the personal loyalty and devotion that Kelson took for granted from his own advisors. 

It was a very small party for two Kings, even augmented by their necessary retinues, supply trains, guards, and attendants, but, to all outward appearances, it was but a hunting trip with their closest and most trusted friends. 

God forbid that the truth should ever be revealed. 

They had used the Portal from Rhemuth to the Palace at Beldour at some disgusting hour of the night, to avoid undue speculations when they arrived. Kelson took care to arrange a very noisy departure of a decoy party from Rhemuth that same morning on somewhat more conventional means, at some unholy hour of the morning, with all the members wrapped up in cloaks and scarves so that they would not be recognised. 

Once in Beldour, Liam's portion of the party was already waiting, eager to be off. There was little to be done but to mount the horses the Torenthi King provided and head south to the mountains that formed the border with Sarain. 

It was only a few hours into the ride that Kelson understood why there was not more panic. The mountains were barren rock, with only a few hardy folk daring to eke out a living on the stony ground. 

Even fewer now. The tiny villages they passed were empty – not deserted, for the bodies of men, women, children and animals lay where some ungodly being had literally drawn the life away from them. Not a few battle-hardened men shed tears and fearfully made the sign of the cross as they came across one dried-out, wide-eyed staring corpse after another. 

Thankfully, there were not many, though all knew that if this…thing…were not stopped soon, such would be a familiar scene across their lands. 

They were met at the border by a band of K'miri clansmen. The border as indicated on the Saren map, a good two miles inside Torenthi territory, but Liam decided that it was not the appropriate time to make an issue of it. Kelson had heard a little about the tribesmen, who were known to be ferocious warriors. They formed a sort of escort around the combined Torenthi and Gwyneddi parties, but made it clear that it was an escort of honour, not an armed guard. Their armour was lacquered in bright colours, and decorated with fanciful designs that Kelson did not recognise, and their horses were of the shaggy, sturdy breed found in mountains everywhere. He thought they reminded him rather of the stubborn ponies that Dhugal had ridden as a child, though they were larger and more muscular. 

Their leader, a stern-faced man in his forties, was polite but close-mouthed. He gave the appropriate greetings to both Kings, and addressed the important members of the party with the correct honorifics, though he seemed to prefer conversations with Bishop Duncan and Duke Dhugal to his other guests. 

Kelson thought it might be more that the Clan Chief of the K'miri Vedu (as Jethom Tesuriah had introduced himself) felt more in common with the two highlander bordermen, united in their contempt towards lowlanders, no matter that they lived half a continent apart. 

At any rate, their escort was deferential, but silent, and it was largely up to the visitors to make conversation, making the most of their opportunity to ask about their host. 

King Yevgen was spoken about in terms of respect, but, much to Kelson's surprise, the K'mir seemed much more interested in Queen Kalasin, speaking of her in terms very close to veneration. When their escort rode ahead to speak with Lord Rasoul, Kelson kneed his horse towards where Azim and Richenda rode together. 

"I'm not surprised, Sire," the Deryni adept told him in a low voice. "'Kalasin' is a K'miri name. The Queen's maternal grandmother was K'mir, and the clans here trace their lineage through the matrilineal lines." 

Kelson must have looked surprised, for Azim arched an eyebrow, "Well, _I_ think it's very practical system, Sire. Much more reliable." He grinned slightly, making it clear that he was joking. 

Then, the Summer Palace had come into view, and there was no more time for jokes. Azim's memory had been deficient – but not to underrate the castle – it was the ultimate defensive fort, built to withstand any mortal enemy. The K'mir must have known the impact of the castle, for they paused to let their visitors gape like tourists, but then they lead them through the gates, and into luxury that was unimaginable even in the finest houses in the Eleven Kingdoms.   


The pavilion where Kelson paced now was one such luxury. Built of pale stone, it had a ceiling of coloured plaster pained to look like the sky from dawn to sunset to night. The floor made up of thousands of tiny coloured tiles, laid in an elaborate pattern that depicted two men and two women with four horses, standing at the four points of the compass, north, east, south and west. He shifted slightly to examine the figure standing at the west point, a woman with wild brown curly hair. 

"That's Chavi West-wind," Liam walked up behind Kelson, making the older man jump. "She's one of the four K'miri Horse Lords – the gods in charge of horses and horse magic." the King of Torenth added helpfully. "The K'mir are pagans, you know." 

Kelson blinked at the boy's matter-of-fact tone. While he did not regard himself as particularly close-minded on the subject of religion, it was a bit of a shock to hear of his vassal's matter-of-fact reference to other Gods. Lord Rasoul was perhaps the only non-Christian he was familiar with, and even then, Lord Rasoul served the same God. 

"It's always useful to know about your neighbours," Liam intoned seriously, then grinned. "For some reason, the priests have never been very strident about converting the K'mir. Missionaries seem to lose all their _enthusiasm_ when they're faced with people who are quite as fond of steel and sharp objects as the K'mir are." 

"So I take it that King Yevgen isn't Christian?" the possibility had not even occurred to Kelson, much to his own self-disgust. 

"I have no idea," Liam shrugged. "At any rate, he's practical enough to leave peoples' souls to themselves so long as they pay their taxes on time. I doubt it though." Liam was referring to the faith of their fellow King. "Christianity never really crossed these mountains. The old gods have held sway here for longer than any human memory." He frowned in concentration. "I think I can remember the other three - that's Bian North-wind, Vau East-wind, and Shai South-wind…I think" he pointed to the other three quadrants of the compass.   


"Congratulations, Majesty. All correct." Both Kings started at the new voice behind them, though it was not at all unpleasant – quite the opposite, a rather musical low tenor. Kelson was getting rather annoyed at himself for being caught off his guard twice in such quick succession. 

Both turned to the newcomer. It was a young man, about Kelson's age, though perhaps with a slight advantage in height, with blond hair and dark eyes, standing between two of the pillars that held the pavilion up. He was dressed plainly, in travelling clothes of the highest quality, but had the unnerving effect of making the other two feel utterly overdressed for the situation. Fawn shirt was just visible under a bronze tunic of unfamiliar cut, its cuffs and hems shimmering slightly with subtle gold embroidery, worn with dark brown breeches and boots. A beautifully crafted longsword and dagger hung almost casually from the white belt of a knight, carried with the air of one well accustomed to its use. Cream gloves were thrust almost carelessly into the belt, revealing that the man wore no rings save for a wide band on his left hand, as a woman would wear a wedding ring. Even without the thin gold circlet whose purpose seemed more to hold his hair away from his eyes than to indicate any sort of rank, even before Liam greeted him with a genuine smile, even without remembering that odd vision he'd had in the royal crypt, Kelson knew very well who the newcomer was. 

"Your Majesty," Liam bowed slightly to the King of Sarain, who returned it gravely. 

"My lords of Torenth and Gwynedd, I give you greetings, and my sincere apologies for not being here to welcome you to Sarain. I am afraid that you made rather better time than we anticipated." 

Yevgen caught Kelson's unspoken query about the quick switch to the royal plural. "My wife, of course, sends her apologies that she cannot be with us now, but she will join us as soon as she is able." He grinned at Kelson, "If you are not yet aware, Majesty, the joys of travelling with small children are an adventure all of their own." He paused and nodded as the two other Kings left the pavilion and walked with him towards the main buildings of the Palace. "I understand that my wife and I should wish you both congratulations on your joy and our deepest sympathies for your grief," he added quietly. He then rather politely ignored Kelson's astonished double-take, before the King of Gwynedd sternly told himself that the Imperial delegation had doubtless passed through Sarain of their way back to the Empire proper, and probably carried more news that he was comfortable with. 

Kelson was beginning to think he didn't like Yevgen of Sarain one bit. Liam obviously didn't share that opinion, for the King of Torenth was hanging on his neighbour's every word with the unmistakable expression of hero-worship. 

"Again, I do apologise for the lack of ceremony," Kelson almost missed the beginning of the sentence, as his Saren counterpart started again, "but circumstances dictate that this is a matter of some urgency. Our cartographers and scouts have managed to chart to progress of the blood wraith's sojourns with some accuracy, though we haven't yet managed to complete the data from last night. I took the liberty of asking your retinues to one of the upper galleries so that we may begin on the matter." 

As he spoke, they had entered the Palace itself, and were climbing up a set of wide stairs carved from gleaming red-gold wood to the second floor. Again, the almost casual luxury of the palace made Kelson feel like a newly-arrived page from a border castle. He imagined Dhugal must have felt very much the same way when he had arrived in Rhemuth for the first time. 

Their advisors were in a long room on the second floor, dominated by a large circular table placed in the middle of the floor upon a huge carpet woven in shades of deep russet and pale blue, and by large windows that overlooked the courtyard where they had dismounted. 

Evidently, Yevgen had introduced himself to their retinues before coming out to surprise the Kings, for they all bowed and curtseyed to him as they did to their monarchs. Kelson had to grudgingly admit that his brother King certainly had style. 

There were several people he did not recognise, evidently Imperials and of slightly lower rank, though they all carried themselves with ease and confidence, as they were setting up copies of diagrams and maps at each of the seats on the table, together with porcelain cups for tea and glass goblets for wine. Kelson counted seats for the main members of his and Liam's parties, King Yevgen's and one more. 

"Last night's diagrams are almost finished Sir," a young man was telling the Saren King, "they should be in here... Ah, here she is. Hello Noor," he turned away from his King to greet a young woman who walked through the door. 

Kelson fought to keep his jaw from dropping, and he gathered the rest of his companions fought similar expressions of astonishment – except perhaps for Lord Rasoul, who gave his niece a look of very deep disapproval (to put it mildly). For Noor was dressed – in not very much at all, at least by Eleven Kingdom standards. The Imperials didn't appear to be particularly bothered, though Kelson thought he caught Yevgen and Noor exchanging little smirks of amusement. Noor wore a very brief tunic, that fell just short of her knees and barely covered her shoulders. It was of a fine white cloth, so the outline of her body was just faintly visible if she stood with her back to the sun. Ornamented with a thick band of purple and red trim on the cuffs and hem, it was clear that the garment was meant to be worn on its own, and caught at the waist with a thin belt of white leather. 

The silence went for the merest fraction of a second too long. 

"Last night's data, Sir" Noor broke the silence, handing a folder that she carried under her arm to the young man who had been speaking to King Yevgen. 

"Ah, good. I believe that all of your Excellencies have made the acquaintance of Dama Noor al-Jedin, one of our cartographers? Wonderful," Yevgen didn't bother waiting for a response as he moved to take a seat at the table. 

Somehow Kelson ended up sitting between Yevgen and Noor, with Dhugal looking very pleased with himself on the R'Kassi noblewoman's other side, and Liam on the other side of the Saren King. There was evidently some sort of unspoken exchange taking place between Lord Rasoul and his niece as the latter nodded to the servers for some of the chilled light, fruity white wine they were offered and downed an entire glass at once, never once breaking her gaze with her uncle. 

Lord Rasoul pointedly requested one of the three types of tea on offer. 

The exchange appeared to irritate their host, for he cleared his throat significantly, and asked if they could begin their discussions. 

Several hours later, whatever optimism Kelson had held about the mysterious – wraith – as the Imperials called it – had utterly faded. They had only seen a very small fraction of the victims of the creature as they had travelled up the mountains. It appeared that it had visited nearly all the tiny settlements in the higher reaches. Some of the pins that indicated the locations of the creature's path were unnerving near the Summer Palace, and there was a mysterious lack of pins on the side of the border claimed by Sarain. 

"We evacuated the villagers some time ago," Yevgen answered King Liam's question as soon as the boy-king had opened his mouth. "And, according to what texts we have on this creature, we're safe here in the Palace grounds. At this stage, the creature cannot bear strong light or fire, so we are lighting the walls and the grounds of the Palace…by the time that it can tolerate the light…well," the king gave an expressive shrug, "it matters not if we are here or halfway across the world." 

"What knowledge have you of this creature, Sire?" Duncan asked, curious. 

"Very little," Yevgen admitted. "The summoning of such monsters has long been forbidden by law, and the creatures have faded into myth and legend." He shook his head. "We have, though, managed to gather some preliminary research," he waved, and the attendants who had remained in the room came forward with hefty stacks of paper for each of those seated at the table. 

'Hefty' was right. Even Kelson couldn't help himself mentally calculating the cost of the stationary so casually placed in front of them. 

They spoke a little further, on demonic creatures, of magic, until they became aware of the approaching dusk and the sound of a large party on horseback clattering into the courtyard below them. 

King Yevgen stood up. "My lords, my ladies, forgive me, I have been remiss in my duties as host, in keeping you here so long after such a hard journey, even with such a grave matter concerning us. May I invite all of you to a dinner with my wife and myself this evening in the garden courtyard?" he bowed slightly, then left the room. 

Noor stood up after the door had closed and walked over to the window that overlooked the courtyard. "I see Queen Kalasin has arrived," she observed casually, leaning against the windowframe in such a way that the outline of her body was clearly visible. "I suppose I should give her my greetings. Your Majesties, Your Highness, Your Graces, Uncle Rasoul, I beg your indulgence, and I shall see you again at dinner." With that, she, too, bowed and left. 

Somewhere along the line, the other attendants had filed out of the room, though a few waited outside the door to guide them back to the guest wing. 

Kelson knew he ought not to, but he joined the wildly enthusiastic Liam at the window. "Queen Kalasin's meant to be the most beautiful woman in the world!" the young Torenthi King was saying excitedly. 

"Every man believes his Queen the fairest," Duncan smiled indulgently, as they watched the arrival of a large party, well armed and well mounted. 

The figure of the King crossed the courtyard and paused in front of a cloaked figure dismounting from a horse. No delicate lady's palfrey, it was a tall, fierce-looking black, closer to seventeen hands than sixteen, with the muscles and barely-restrained strength of a trained warsteed. They supposed it was the King's captain-of-guard, perhaps his equivalent of Lord Derry, Morgan's trusted aide, but all save perhaps Prince Azim were taken aback when the figure unclasped her cloak and handed it to a waiting attendant. 

Kelson could not stop his breath from catching, and beside him, Liam and Dhugal stared wide-eyed. 

Sidana had been extremely pretty. Rothana, exotic and utterly enthralling. Araxie, regal and elegant. In the years that he had been King, Kelson had seen uncountable numbers of eligible, attractive girls paraded in front of him. 

But none could compare to Kalasin of Sarain. Liam was right. She was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman that Kelson had ever seen. The brief glimpse he had already had of her did not do her justice. Masses of coal-black hair was woven into a coronet around her head and secured with a simple silver band, and her eyes were a deep sapphire blue to rival the Duchess Richenda's. She was dressed like her husband – with shirt, breeches, boots and tunic, though her clothes were predominantly blue and dove-grey. Kelson thought he caught Richenda examining the Queen's travelling clothes and making little mental notes about her own wardrobe. Morgan's Duchess had worn divided riding skirts on the journey here – scandalous enough in Gwynedd, and only worn by the most avid equestriennes – rather than ride side-saddle as ladies were expected to do. 

Below them, King Yevgen took his Queen into his arms and kissed her thoroughly, in a manner that Kelson thought was much better suited to the private bedchamber than a public courtyard, though it was evident that the Queen's escort did not agree, as they all clapped and cheered at the sight. Eventually, though, they broke apart (probably to breathe), and the King reached up to a woman who had been riding next to the Queen, and holding a small bundle, which he accepted with reverence and held like a precious treasure. 

Kelson knew well enough what the bundle was, as his contemporary gently cradled it. He knew that Yevgen and Kalasin had a daughter the same age as his own sons, but had not anticipated that they would bring such a small child on such a hard journey. Evidently there were not a great deal of assumptions he could make about his Saren counterparts. 

"Clever, very _very_ clever," Prince Azim said softly, in tones of admiration. 

"Pardon?" Rasoul sounded a little sour, possibly still the effect of his niece. 

"The Sun-King and the Moon-Queen," Azim waved out the window. "I was wondering why they were bothering with circlets, when they're notorious for informality." He looked around his companions. "The Sun-King and the Moon-Queen were two of the major deities once worshiped in these mountains – well, they still are, in some areas. These mountains have never felt reason to recognise overlords who came by force, so the new overlords are trying something much more subtle – and, most likely, far more effective. One of the Saren royals has a very perceptive Master or Mistress of Wardrobe," he added. 

"They're dressing like their Gods?" there was a crease between Liam's brows as he thought the concept over. 

"I wouldn't go that far. The Sun-King and Moon-Queen are only worshiped in this part of the world, to my knowledge, and neither King Yevgen nor Queen Kalasin were familiar with Sarain until about three or four years ago." he smiled at Morgan, "But, as you know, my lord Duke, dress can convey a great deal, if one wishes it," 

They shared the joke – Morgan's past preference of plain black and visible chain-mail had cemented the slightly dangerous air he had cultivated as King Brion's Deryni shadow, and only abandoned once he had been convinced of the negative points of such an image. Such as people trying to burn him alive, for example. 

There were sounds coming from their waiting escort out the door. Very quiet ones, for they were superbly trained – Kelson had a sneaking suspicion that the young men might be senior squires or even young knights – but little sounds none the less. 

Realising that he was hungry, despite the drinks and the delicious snacks provided by his host during their deliberations, Kelson lead the others out to their quarters to prepare for dinner.   


_Author's Notes: If people don't get the significance of Noor sculling her drinks in front of her uncle, and showing up in standard Imperial summer clothing, please email me._   



	8. Friends for Dinner

  
_Author's Notes: The chapter contains a cameo by RoseFyre, who was the only person who emailed me about the two little questions at the end of 'Queen Kalasin' – even though I gave the answers in earlier chapters of this story._

Friends for Dinner 

By the time they were shown into the paved open atrium, the Saren and Imperial members of the dining party had already arrived. The courtyard, open to the sky, was surrounded on three sides with wide corridors that lead to the Palace proper, supported by wide columns, the fourth facing out to an immaculately designed garden, full of colourful flowers, restful water feature with a tinkling fountain and tiny goldfish. 

The courtyard was lit as bright as day with glowing lanterns placed on the columns, and wide bowls of high leaping flames. Candles were abundant on the large table, set for their comparatively small party. 

Queen Kalasin greeted them all warmly, showing no sign of her journey in a sapphire gown which was, if much more daringly cut that was currently acceptable in the Eleven Kingdoms, a little less shocking that the costume that Noor al-Jedin had chosen in the afternoon. Noor was there also, but had covered the brief tunic with what appeared to be a cotton mantle wrapped and draped in elaborate folds around her body. Rasoul seemed a little less displeased with his niece – though it would have been difficult for him to be more irate with her – which may have been the intention all along. There was one other person introduced – and Kelson, who thought himself past any surprise at this stage, was taken aback. 

King Yevgen introduced her as the Imperial Ambassador, the Empress's personal representative in Sarain. Whatever she was, she was startling – not because she was beautiful – for Kelson could honestly say she was not, at least not compared to Queen Kalasin or even Duchess Richenda – but compelling in her own way. She had a clever, interesting face, over-refined and just a trace too sharp, too angular to be truly pleasing to the eye. Roughly the same age as Kelson, Yevgen and Kalasin, and dressed much in the manner of Noor – in tunic and draped mantle, she had an air of casual command and authority, just the barest knife-edge away from arrogance. Her name, as Queen Kalasin said in her clear, musical voice, was Dama Radanae Gavrillian, a noted scholar. 

It was an oval table, so their host and hostess took up seats on either end of the table, their guests ranged between them, finding small stiff cards with each of their names in flowing gold-specked script. Kelson found himself admiring the way that things had been ordered. He found himself on his host's right hand, across from Lord Rasoul and next to Lord Rasoul's niece (who, again, was gazing steadily at her uncle as she nodded for her wine), with Morgan down the other end of the table next to Queen Kalasin, who had the clearly besotted Liam worshipping at her other side. Unlike the usual long table and dais setting he had been expecting, it gave all the diners to converse with each other with a minimum of difficulty. 

"I had hoped that we would meet under rather less trying circumstances," Kelson tore his eyes away from Noor's unspoken, complex conversation with her Uncle and Prince Azim, who sat across from her to pay attention to his host. "We have heard much of Gwynedd and Torenth here and I confess we have been very curious about our neighbours," 

He nodded down the table at Liam, hanging onto the beautiful Kalasin's every word as she spoke of flowers, garden design and ornamental water features with Richenda, who sat at her husband's side. Dhugal, on Azim's left, was engaged in what appeared to be an extremely interesting conversation with the Ambassador, who Liam was ignoring. 

"I cannot say the same, my lord," Kelson began, to be cut off with a firm word from his host. 

"Yevgen." The other King insisted. "Formality is a little inappropriate in circumstances such as this." 

Kelson acquiesced, feeling unusually displeased with himself for losing control of the conversation, and gave permission for the other to use his given name. He continued, trying to make the most of the situation. "We were most surprised at the progress that has been made in Sarain in the last few years," he began, feeling that it was a safe topic of conversation, while hoping that Lord Rasoul and Prince Azim would stop glaring at their kinswoman long enough to rescue him. 

"You are kind," Yevgen inclined his head graciously, as the servers cleared the table of its elaborate floral decorations and brought around the first course. 

Kelson felt himself respond with a standard enquiry about the Saren royals' young daughter. Yevgen accepted the compliment with grace, and then responded. 

"Dama Noor tells me that you have a pair of twin sons of your own." 

"I do," Kelson replied, as he gazed at the veritable armoury of cutlery on either side of his plate. He was not unfamiliar with it – after all, he had travelled to the luxurious courts of Beldour and the seat of the Hort of Ostal frequently (Araxie had been the niece of the Hort) – but nobody he had met yet had laid such a casual display of engraved silver in front of his guests. Then, he asked about a little something that had been plaguing his mind ever since the Imperial Envoy to Gwynedd had summoned Noor away from her conversation with Rothana. 

"Dama?" he asked, curious about the unfamiliar title. 

"It's the Imperial equivalent of 'Lady', Majesty." Noor answered from his other side. It was the slight movement of the tablecloth more than any movement on his host's face that told Kelson that the King of Sarain had been kicked under the table. Hard. There was something very important that he knew he was missing in the conversation, and Kelson resolved to find out what it was before he cast a quick look at his surroundings once more. 

It was style. There was no other word for it. Neither Yevgen nor Kalasin wore jewels (save for matching wedding bands), or especially elaborate clothing, but everything about their surroundings made it clear just how wealthy they were. No gems in the goblets – but glass as fine as the three or four goblets at each place setting was costlier than gold – and the array of silverware was more than most lords had in their entire treasuries. Kelson found himself thinking of his collection of crowns and finding them gaudy and barbaric. 

It was intentional. He knew it. But it didn't stop him feeling just a mite unkingly. 

He picked up the outermost set of knife and fork and began. 

The meal was delicious.   


The conversations were hardly less tense at the other end of the table. Kalasin and Richenda found that they had much to talk about. Morgan and Duncan, who sat on either side of Richenda, found that they could barely sneak a word in edgewise. 

"…the pipes? Oh no, not difficult at all. The roofs are angled to collect rainwater, and there are of course rivers and streams – not to mention the melting glaciers at this time of year – covered all the way, of course - we filter it through several grades of sand and rock and then pump it through the copper pipes you've seen." 

"Yes, I've something similar at my estates in Andelon, your Majesty…" 

"Kalasin." Like her husband (whose conversation with Kelson Richenda listened to with one ear), the Queen evidently preferred informality. 

Richenda smiled graciously at the younger woman. "Then I must be 'Richenda'." A pause. "Was your journey very difficult?" she asked, as a silent, efficient server placed a perfectly presented plate of entrees in front of her. 

"Not any more than anyone might expect at this time of year. Of course, one must also take into account the new-found pleasures of travelling with a small child." Kalasin picked up her goblet of chilled fruit juice. 

"Oh yes, an experience not to be missed," Richenda agreed. 

Kalasin smiled. "I never knew how difficult it was to part from her," the Queen admitted, "I hope that the young Earls of Marley and Lendour are well, and the Lady Briony?" 

"They are, thank you," Richenda replied, as her husband and his cousin jerked in surprise. Daughter of a noble house, she knew to hide her emotions. The two women smiled again and continued with their dinner.   
  


"…after that, I drew my sword…" Dhugal was only slightly exaggerating his tale of heroism and daring. 

The Ambassador creased her brow. "Forgive me, your grace…" 

"Dhugal," he flashed his most charming smile. 

She didn't give him permission to use her name. "_Ahem_. But did you not say that you were shielding the 'fair Lady Cathane'" she loaded the words with considerable sarcasm, "…in the narrow corridor, with no room to move, but towards the menacing lord?" 

Dhugal was a little taken aback at her precise memory of his words. He hadn't realised he was being quiet so dramatic. He nodded. 

"Then how did you have room to draw your sword without hitting the lady with your elbow?" Radanae raised an eyebrow. "I am, of course, no expert (that was not exactly a lie – it depended on what one's standards were), but I have seen enough bouts to know that they are most inconvenient in a corridor." 

Dhugal opened and closed his mouth at the seemingly innocent query. 

The Ambassador didn't let him see her roll her eyes as she started on some grilled lamb fillet.   
  


Dessert was over (and Kelson couldn't help but think that Noor no longer cared what anyone thought of her, after so many glasses of the heady sweet wine served with the cakes), thanks and expressions of gratitude said, and the visitors headed up to their quarters.   
  


"We're making good time, we'll start crossing the mountains tomorrow and we should reach the Summer Palace not too long after that, if we don't stop." Justinia loomed in the tent flap, almost completely blocking out the light from the flambeaus outside, just before she entered the tent of the Imperial Heir. 

"Excellent," Kay sighed and flipped her long blonde braid back over her shoulder and continued reading the maps in front of her. "Not a moment too soon, for my liking. Make sure they all have torches staked out in front of every tent, and they all have the sand and salt close at hand." She turned to the third woman in the tent. "Rose, have you finished with the replies yet?" 

Dama Rosgrana Feuerin, Kay's 'formal' secretary nodded, and passed over a neat bundle of polite refusals to social functions. Two years younger than the Princess, her official role was co-ordinating (i.e., refusing) the myriad social engagements of the Imperial Heir and drafting polite letters about children and pets to people whose names Kay didn't bother remembering. 

Her unofficial role was researching those children, pets, interests, and activities that Kay would mention in casual conversations. 

For the Empress had done the unconventional (though perfectly legal), and had confirmed her younger sister as Heir, even after the birth, some months ago, of Ishtar, the Empress's daughter. It was a practice that had fallen out of favour in such peaceful times. During wartime, it was perfectly understandable, as the Heir had to be ready to take over at a moment's notice, something a baby could hardly do, and a role that a talented younger sister could certainly fill, no matter how reluctant she was to fill it. There were whisperings about it, for the first few months, but they had largely faded. 

However – now that meant that Kay was getting more unwanted social invitations than ever. Before, when she had first been merely a younger daughter, and then a 'temporary' heir, people had not really bothered, knowing that she would refuse. Now, with every indication that she would remain, at least officially, Heir to the Diadem until Ishtar earned her knighthood and the title of 'Princess', her social star rose higher than ever. Even though convention would dictate that if the unthinkable happened, the new Empress Berenice would declare her niece Heir over any daughters she might have, she was now much more sought-after than she was previously. 

Hence – Rose. To write polite refusals to all but a select few of the invitations. To schedule those engagements that Kay could not refuse. To – and it was the young 'diplomat's' favourite task – find out charming little snippets about those notables so that the Princess could make small talk. The names of their children. Their birthdays. The play that a certain young man or woman was starring in, and how such a terrible actor got the part. The location and balance of the 'secret' bank account they 'forgot' to report to the Imperial Revenue Service during the last Census and tax audit. Little things to liven a conversation. 

And if the Heir's two aides, Justinia Ferox and Felara Eriel, sometimes made use of the services of Princess's researcher and secretary for a little preliminary investigations of their own, what of it? Rose was discreet, intelligent, and ambitious. She knew enough of the way of the court to know that she would rise high in the service of the Heir and her shadows.   
  


"What do you think of them?" Kalasin's query hung between them in the still summer night. 

She and Yevgen were alone in the courtyard garden. The visitors had pled exhaustion and gone to their quarters, and Noor had been hauled off almost bodily by Radanae (the older woman was both slightly taller, and rather more skilled when it came to the martial arts, despite her protestations), probably for a very long lecture about the negatives of being too obvious, and drinking half a cellar during a formal dinner. 

"Interesting," was Yevgen's response, as he relaxed. He had chosen to wear a formal, but lightweight tunic over his shirt and breeches, as opposed to the more correct short tunic and toga that the other two Imperials had chosen (Noor saw herself as an Imperial – so Yevgen and Kally did too). "Liam – scamp, of course. I like him. Open-minded, with his first priority his people. Heart's in the right place – even if he seems to have temporarily signed it over to you." Kally smiled, but gave him a playful slap on the arm. "Duke Dhugal – well, Danae probably found him irritating, but I imagine he's the loyal sort that Kelson wants at his side if there's trouble. Bishop Duncan – a bit of an enigma. More open-minded than most Christian clergy from outside the Empire, I have to admit, and certainly a good deal more curious. Duke Alaric – well – even more of an enigma than his cousin – their mothers were sisters." He explained. "At any rate, knowledgeable, and eager to know more. Devoted to his King. Duchess Richenda – well – you were speaking to her more than I, but I gather a highly intelligent woman who hides her feelings well. Prince Azim – knows a lot more about us than he's letting on – even to his side. Lord Rasoul hasn't stopped being outraged by Noor yet to really let me form any sort of opinion – which I think is her point. Kelson - " he lifted one corner of his mouth in a grin. "Well, I think he doesn't like me much." 

"Oh, really?" Kally had picked up the tension between the two older Kings, but wanted to hear her husband's perspective. 

"I don't think Kelson's ever had anyone use the same techniques he does – but done them better - the hair," he joked, running a hand through his own dyed locks, and knowing that the casual observer wouldn't pick it up. Callum was an expert in his craft, and the effect was so gradual that most in the Court thought the King's hair was simply darkening with maturity. 

"Oh, yes, the braid," Kally remembered. 

"To cement the border regions." Yevgen leaned back on the bench they were sitting on. "It's the traditional hairstyle there. He adopted it during some border instability some four or five years ago – though I think Duke Dhugal had something to do with that, a borderman himself. Then – there's the understated wealth, the 'unconscious power' thing and the whole casual-warrior-king attitude." 

Kalasin laughed at his phrasing. But he was right. She saw a lot of her husband in their visitor –but, in her biased opinion, Yevgen was much better at it – even if it was due to being on his own 'territory', and his slight advantage in age and experience. 

"Then – of course – you," he smiled as he drew her closer. "Unlucky in love he might have been – but I don't think he's ever met anyone quite as extraordinary as you. The Eleven Kingdoms make even the fustiest conservative in the Eastern Lands feel like a socialist." He grinned. "Radanae calls them 'cave-dwelling barbarians' – when she's being polite." 

"Women being property?" Kalasin caught his gist, "and me as yours?" 

"And vastly superior to anyone he's ever felt he's 'owned'," she knew he was careful to but the inverted commas in. 

"Duchess Richenda – seemed more outgoing that I thought she would be." Kally began. "Then again, she is a Regent for her older son, and she runs the duchy most of the time while her husband's at Court." She flickered a glance up at him. "I _do_ read the intelligence reports too." 

"I never doubted it – since I leave them on your desk." 

A moment of quiet, punctuated only by the fountain. 

"Why did Noor stop you explaining that she was a knight?" Kalasin asked. She hadn't noticed Noor's quick interjection – nor, probably the swift blow under the table. 

"No female knights in the Eleven Kingdoms, as you may have guessed," Yevgen replied. 

Kally indicated that that particular bit of information was obvious. 

He shrugged. "Probably doesn't want to show her hand too much – or make her Uncle feel that he can influence her. That's probably the reason she drank half the cellar." 

Kalasin threw him a questioning look. 

"The religion her family follows doesn't look kindly on the consumption of alcohol – and certainly not to the extent she was doing so tonight. Part of their traditions also indicates that a young woman – ah – _respects_ – the wishes of older male relatives. She's making it clear that she won't take his into account if they run counter to her responsibilities here. Or she may just enjoy annoying him." He concluded fairly. 

"It doesn't make much of a difference, whether they know we have female knights or not," Kally pointed out. 

"I know. She knows that. I gather she just wants to shock them more when Kay and the troops get here to clean up any mortal army the blood-wraith's summoner might have. That reminds me," he shook his head, "we have to make it clear to Kay that our guests have rather different attitudes to sex than Imperial knights do." 

"Oh?" Kalasin had gathered the likely attitudes of such a conservative society weren't exactly compatible with the free-for-all that characterised the younger Imperial knights, but hadn't thought they needed to inform her sister-in-law about it. 

Yevgen sighed. "If we don't. I'm afraid our unmarried guests are going to find that there are bets going around, and one morning they'll wake up as a notch on someone's proverbial bedpost. I don't much care for Kelson's chances if that happens – tortured prince with a broken heart – I can think of a few who see that as an irresistible challenge. Dhugal's fair game, I think – and he wouldn't mind half so much. I don't think anyone's quite so much of a cradle-snatcher to try Liam, but I'll have to remind Kay nonetheless." He shook his head, but then appeared to move the issue straight out of his mind. 

He moved closer to her, placing his arms around her, a gentle embrace – affectionate, but not possessive. She returned the gesture. "Oh that's nice," she murmured into his shoulder. "We haven't had a bit of peace for so long…I feel almost selfish taking this time away, with so much going on." 

"I feel the same," he agreed. Sighed. 

"Not a way to spend our first long stay at the Summer Palace," Kalasin was observing, before tilting her head up for a kiss. 

It went on for some time. 

"Lillias is nearly six months old," she murmured, finally breaking off for air "and I was too big for anything for months beforehand. Do you realise that it's been nearly a year since we've actually …" 

"Nine months and sixteen days," came his whisper against her hair. 

"You've kept count!?" Kally laughed delightedly, and lifted her lips up to his again. 

They were thus agreeably engaged for some time. At length, though, it was Yevgen who pulled away. "I don't think…this is a good idea," he breathed heavily, moving back a little and rather reluctantly placing his hands on the stone bench where they sat. 

Kally looked at him, confused. He ducked his head, and even in the light of the torches she could see he was slightly embarrassed. "I'm not…ah…_on_…anything. And it's rather soon after Lillias…I didn't think that you'd…" he trailed off, not sure how exactly to put it. Even after three years of marriage, and Lillias, Kally knew that he still wasn't as blunt with her as he was with his female friends. For which, she sometimes was glad. The jokes young Imperial knights exchanged made her turn bright red, even though they were more about witty word-play and clever turns of phrase then genuine innuendo or bawdy coarseness. 

"Is it that?" Kally looked at him directly, placed a slender hand under his chin when he didn't meet her eyes. "Not…anything to do with me? I know I'm not as…well…I'm…" 

"Oh Gods _no_, Kally," he was in earnest. "Just that…with the _trouble_….with Lillias…I wasn't sure if you wanted to go through with it again." There was something underneath his words…not that he wasn't telling the truth…but there was something else. He glanced away for the briefest second, and she caught it. _Fear_. But fear of what? 

"Well, not right now, or for a little while yet," Kally moved closer, breaking the silence. He did not pull away. "But I do have a pregnancy charm in my jewellery box – mother gave it to me." she added hastily at his raised eyebrow. "They work even after years." She stood up with a rustle of skirts and held out her hand. "Come to bed." 

He took it.   
  
  


_Note: If anyone's confused, the seating of the table, goes (in a clockwise direction): Yevgen, Rasoul, Azim, Dhugal, Radanae, Liam, Kally, Morgan, Richenda, Duncan, Noor, Kelson._   



	9. Another ArrivalBeing Blunt

_Note: I stole one of the ideas in here from Raymond E Fiest's Nighthawk – assassins. At least, that's where I think it's from – it's been ages since I've read one of his books._

Another Arrival/ Being Blunt

Rasoul sought to clear his mind as he completed his dawn prayers, and then rolled up the prayer mat. It was peaceful here in the gardens of the guest quarters. Private. Calm. A place of retreat, of peace before the start of another trying day. Their hosts were confusing, to say the least. And certain other occupants… 

The sound of clattering silver on silver, and the rich, all-pervading aroma of fresh coffee assaulted his senses, and he whirled around. 

His niece sat quietly on the garden bench, a proper silver coffee-service on the tray beside her, and two cups. She was dressed decently this morning, in a long-sleeved tunic over trousers, even though her head was bare, her hair cut short, level with her jawline. 

"Good morning, Uncle," Noor inclined her head. Her eyes were bloodshot. "Would you like some coffee?" 

He was about to refuse – but then he found that his feet, of their own accord were making their way to the low bench. It smelled wonderful. The only thing he'd missed while in service to Torenth's King and his Regents. 

She understood and poured him a cup, motioning to the sugar-bowl beside it. He signalled two. 

It _was_ wonderful. Perfectly roasted, perfectly ground, bitter and sweet, rich and full, with a hint of bottomless depths and at just the right temperature. He hadn't had a cup quite so good since the last time he'd returned to R'Kassi. 

Noor caught the look. "There's plenty more. I'm the only one who drinks this particular blend. Kalasin won't drink it when she's pregnant or nursing, so Yevgen doesn't either, and Radanae and the others prefer a milder roast drunk with milk, in the Imperial style." 

Silence. 

"I notice you didn't make your prayers this morning," Rasoul began. 

She shrugged. "I don't pray when I'm not in R'Kassi. I also don't fast, I haven't made a pilgrimage to any holy place, though in my defence, I do give alms to the poor." 

"At least you still remember them," Rasoul muttered. His standards were _definitely_ dropping. 

She tilted her head. "They _are_ taught at school." She informed him. "In Comparative Theologies and Religious Traditions." She made a face. "I only got a credit in that." She confessed. 

Her uncle only barely managed not to spit out the hot drink, but not in response to her last remark. 

She continued blithely, ignoring his efforts to swallow. "But it wouldn't have been practical to teach it individually, I suppose. What with about 421 recognised religions in the Empire, and probably ten times that in reality." She left the thoughts hanging in the chill morning air. She sneezed, and then blew her nose on a handkerchief. She turned an amused glance at her uncle. 

"Come on, Uncle Rasoul. You can't imagine that after fifteen years in the Empire, I'm hardly going to be _rigid_ about matters like that." She shook her head. "The only mosque in the capital is between the Temple to Bachedion, God of Wine and Winemakers, and the Shrine of Apaline, Goddess of the Hunt, Patron of Wild Boar. It shares a back wall and water-pipes with the only synagogue and since the pipes are going through renovations at the moment, both those congregations are actually worshipping in the Christian Church." 

Rasoul was aware that he was gaping. 

"The city planners give building permits according to the size of the congregation, and the date of the applications," Noor continued. "Most of them don't tend to research the substance of the various faiths, and there are a few very unexpected neighbours." 

"I gather that there are disagreements, between so many discordant peoples?" Rasoul was probing, suspending his disbelief. 

"Not really." Noor told him, then poured herself some more coffee. "There's vast differences between some faiths, as you may imagine, but they have one thing that unites them above all else." 

"Oh?" Rasoul sounded sceptical, remembering the suspicion that even the Torenthi Court held him in, even after his years of faithful service. 

"All religious centres of worship are in the one part of the capital Uncle – in any city or town – and that is where all the clergy must live. They all know, when they get their permits to build in the quarter, than any disturbances of the peace means that the Empress can order the entire sector burned to the ground. With everyone in it. It's happened before, under previous Empresses, and there's no indication that Rislyn won't authorise it if the circumstances arise." 

"You've met the Empress?" 

"Oh _yes_." 

Silence. Rasoul got the impression from his niece that she had said all that she felt needed to be said, though he still had questions. 

He was about to ask when they were interrupted by a young man about Noor's age, in the uniform of a garrison soldier here at the Summer Palace. He bowed to both of them, but addressed Noor. 

"Her Excellency the Ambassador reminds you that you're late to the practice courts, and that you might like this," he held a plain pottery cup, containing a questionable-looking steaming green liquid. 

To Rasoul's surprise, his niece took it with what looked to be relief, grimaced, and drank it down. She spluttered, and handed it back to the soldier. 

He stayed. 

She sighed, then rose from the bench, and turned to bow at Rasoul. "My apologies, Uncle. I beg you to excuse me, but I find that I have another engagement." 

He began to give her leave – but then hesitated, and rose from the bench too, offering to accompany her. It would be useful to see the standard of the Imperial knights. Presumably his niece, in service to the Empress (no matter how much he disapproved of that) had been taught to fend off an attacker in an emergency, or to hold falcon and bow well enough to be able to make conversation on the 'hunting trips' that determined the fates of nations without taking her attention off her quarry. They were essential skills for anyone close to power. 

She accepted – though her reluctance was only barely concealed. They walked silently through the guest quarters, unexpectedly running into Kings Kelson and Liam, and Duke Dhugal. Morgan and Richenda, as usual, were still abed, and presumably both Prince Azim and Bishop Duncan were feeling the effects of the journey rather more than they had admitted. 

Morning greetings were exchanged, and Noor, pressed, had to again explain she was on her way to meet the Imperial Ambassador at the training courts. 

Noor – despite her irritation – concealed rather better her amusement that the younger men assumed that she was going there to watch, than her uncle's assumption that she could fiddle around a little with a dagger and bow. Not knowing any good reason to refuse – and knowing, after a very long talk from her superior – that they had no reason for subterfuge on the subject of Imperial martial skills (the standards even at a border garrison here in Sarain were comfortably higher than any in the Eleven Kingdoms)– she guided them through the Palace to the courts. 

Not as large as those in the Royal Palace in the capital, the grounds reserved for the troops at the Summer Palace (which was also the main northern fortress) were prepared for the training of light mountain troops. No tilting yard, but plenty of archery targets, and rings for the practice of light arms fighting. There were already a respectable number of people there. Yevgen was not, and he had not been training at his customary hours since the latter stages of Kalasin's pregnancy, according to Noor's old and new friends assigned to his personal guard. 

She glanced at the men (and boy) who had accompanied her, watched Rasoul's keen gaze, and Dhugal's approving looks at the fighting styles being practised – rather similar to those of his own bordermen, she gathered. 

"Ah, there you are, Dama," Radanae's cut-glass diction could have penetrated far worse headaches than Noor's – and pained far clearer heads. "And your Majesties, your grace, your lordship, I hope you have found the accommodations to your liking." 

The men all murmured in the affirmative. There was something definitely striking about the Ambassador, even though Dhugal seemed a little reticent around her. 

"If you will excuse us, my lords, the Shieka Noor and I have something to discuss," Radanae bowed slightly – the exact degree for a high-ranking Envoy to a pair of foreign kings, not a hair's-breadth more – then led Noor away. 

It was walk or be dragged. Radanae wasn't completely without the traditional Gavrillian characteristics. 

They walked in silence for some time, until they were inside the Palace again, and out of sight and earshot of the visitors. "I hope you said what you really should have said straight out to your Uncle this morning," Radanae began, in a continuation on her lecture the evening before. "There are times and there are places for discussions with one's family, but during an official visit, while a blood wraith is on the loose, is not one of them." 

Noor muttered something about her superior not understanding. 

Radanae looked amused. "Do I not? Noor, I'm scion to a family that has produced more than nine hundred years' worth of generals, military commanders, heroes, and soldiers. Do you think it was easy to convince them that I wanted to fight with words and guile, not with my sword? I went and spoke to them. Repeatedly. I did _not_ sit at a formal dinner and drink myself under the table to make a point. Especially when I'm not accustomed to drinking." 

Noor shot a surprised look at the older woman. 

"I'm perfectly well aware that you don't drink normally, Noor." She shook her head. "Every black sheep has to tell the rest of the flock sometime, and sometimes the direct method is the best, despite what they teach at the Academy. Now," her voice turned unexpectedly kind, "I know that at the moment your head is about to come off, even with the hangover-relief. Why don't you go back up and get a few more hours' sleep? There's really nothing essential happening for a while yet. I'll have someone wake you at a more sensible hour in the afternoon." 

Noor shot Radanae a grateful look, and then left at the direction of the stairs. 

"She's a good girl, though," Yevgen approached his old friend from behind. He was dressed in 'good' practice clothes. Evidently he had anticipated the presence of at least some of their visitors on the practice courts, even at this early hour, and that he would inevitably show off about his own skills. 

"I never said she wasn't," Radanae turned around. "It's just that I thought I trained her better than to weaken herself to make a point." 

"Ah, but since when did logic get in the way of families?" he asked, shrugging. 

Their eyes met. Of all knights, perhaps they understood Noor's dilemma the best, and sympathised with her – if they also shared disapproval about her actions. There was a reason that the Gavrillian House scion was so eager for assignments abroad, even though the family now held her in grudging esteem. There was a reason that the Empress Vanaria's youngest child had jumped at the chance to rule the westernmost frontier, far from the centre of power (even if he had been much more reluctant about the marriage that cemented his rule). 

One day, perhaps, Noor would find the contentment they had in their roles – but until then, the conflicting ties of personal wants and family expectations and traditions would weigh as heavily on her as they had on them.   


Hooves pounded into the tight-rammed earth of the courts, and both the King of Sarain and the Imperial Ambassador strode quickly out to see one of the scouts pull up on a heavily lathered horse, looking panicked. 

Yevgen and Radanae moved quickly out into the courts, noticing that their visitors were also drawn to the disturbance. Behind the scout, more riders pounded in. 

One was holding a tightly wrapped, long, squirming bundle – which he dropped unceremoniously on the ground with the air of one rid of a poisonous snake. 

"What is it, Buran?" Yevgen asked the lead scout – the younger son of a K'mir Clan Chief, come to seek adventure in the service of the new monarchs. 

"We found _that_ on the dawn patrol, Sir," The young man slid down from his pony, making only a sketchy bow for formality's sake. He immediately drew his short, slender K'mir sword warily, and stood in such a way that he was between his King and the bundle – since Yevgen was apparently unarmed (he wasn't). "It was sniffing around the track, so we drew a sack over it and brought it in. We…er…aren't sure _what_ it is…it _was_ a man…" 

With the howl of a wounded animal the thing ripped out of the bounds of sack and the cords that had secured it. 

'Thing' was right. 

Once a man – it appeared to be an animated corpse, skin dry and cracking. Its eyes and mouth gaped wide, arms flung out, fingers grasping, searching…then stopping. 

The Imperial Ambassador has somehow managed to shove both king and scout aside, and produce a dagger, narrow bladed, which, even now, she stuck in the creature's midsection. 

It gazed at her with unseeing eyes, in seeming disbelief. 

Actually, almost everyone else in the court was looking on with disbelief too. 

Time seemed to fall heavily. The dust itself appeared to slow, as Radanae slowly drew the narrow dagger up the abdomen of the creature, opening up the chest. She stepped back momentarily as it fell, flailing to the ground, but she was on her knees beside it in a moment, the dagger moving swiftly as she quickly and efficiently eviscerated the chest cavity, reached into the gaping dark maul, and pulled out a maggot-ridden, throbbing lump of rotting muscle that had once been a heart. 

Hands dripping with gore, she flung it away from the creature (a few of the watchers had to jump swiftly out of the way), which floundered once more, then lay still. 

"Burn it," she croaked, to no-one in particular. 

A second's delay – and then a bright glow of ultramarine concentrated in King Yevgen's upturned palm, only a fraction of a moment before the still-moving muscle burst into flame and disintegrated into dust, leaving only a burnt patch on the ground. The young fighter nearest to it stepped nervously further away. 

Silence. 

"The dratted things don't have the _courtesy_ to stay dead, unless you do that," Radanae got up off her knees and absently wiped hands and dagger on her breeches. 

"What…what…_was_ that?" King Liam asked, mouth wide agape. 

"What _was_ is right." Radanae sighed. "It's moving quicker even than we thought. A servant of the wraith. One who has given his soul to a blood mage in return for near-immortality. One that wasn't _really_ ready to go out in the world," she concluded dismissively, sniffing at the now-still corpse. 

"Usually, it's longer before they can come out into the light…" Yevgen frowned. 

"We did find it near some caves, Sir, not too long after dawn" Buran found his voice, but was giving the Ambassador some very nervous sidelong looks. "Perhaps it thought to get some water before the sun came up proper…" 

"I hope so, I hope so," Yevgen shook his head as he moved around to examine the corpse. "Not K'mir, or Saren, nor Doi. What do you think, Danae?" 

"Imperial. But from which sector, I couldn't say. We're all such mongrels – nobles especially – that I doubt anyone could." She sighed. 

"That's…a noble? How can you tell?" Dhugal's curiosity overcame his faint feeling of nausea. 

Radanae pointed, but did not touch the corpse. "Fingers. Calluses for pen and sword, but the nails are manicured," she held up her own long-fingered hand (slightly blood stained) for comparison. "This is…not good." She observed, to no-one in particular. She shook her head, and turned to the scout. "Is there any sign of the Princess Berenice and her party?" 

Buran nodded. "Mirror signals from across the mountains. Possibly tomorrow afternoon if they ride all night – which I gather they'll do." 

"Good." She nodded back at the scout with definite satisfaction. 'Well," she took a deep breath, and turned to Yevgen, Kelson, Liam, Dhugal and Rasoul, who had all come close enough to watch. "if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I believe that I should change my clothes and have a bath," she took one more look at the corpse, but now, danger past, she pressed her cleaner hand to her mouth and moved very quickly in the direction of the Palace proper. 

Liam gave her an odd look, thinking the action oddly graceless from what he had seen of her. 

Yevgen caught his neighbour's puzzled look. It was the perfect opportunity to make a few things clear before his sister arrived – they might as well get the spluttering over and done with quickly. He gave a careless shrug, as he signalled for some of the guards to bring a stretcher to remove the corpse. "She would prefer others not witness her reaction to – messy – deaths. She considers it rather beneath her dignity as a _knight_." 

It hung between them in the now-quiet practice court for a second or two (there seemed to be a great general reluctance to continue training). 

Liam spoke first. "Excuse me…the Lady…" 

"Is a knight. I believe the symbolism of the white belt is virtually universal. Oh, thank you," the last was directed at a quartet of guards who had arrived to bundle the corpse into a shroud, and then onto a stretcher. Yevgen helped them, and then moved to the covered walkway that joined the courts to the Palace proper. 

A glance was enough to get the courts filled again, though everyone avoided ring with the burnt patch, and the one where the …_thing_….had fallen. 

Judging that he had given enough time for the visitors to recover, Yevgen nodded at an attendant. The man departed swiftly and returned with tea and five cups. 

"I think…" Yevgen drew the words out, "that with the sole exception of my wife, most, if not all of the noblewomen I anticipate you'll meet here will be knights – since they're mainly Imperials this far north. An Imperial noblewoman is a knight by definition." He shook his head, and let them see a rueful smile. "It amuses my wife no end. Tortallan noblewomen may become knights by law, but it's not so common that a princess may do so." He thought that he had spoken enough, and let his guests digest the information. 

They took it much better than he had anticipated. From the intelligence reports, even the comparatively liberal Tortallans had taken a little time to comprehend the concept of female knights being the rule rather than the odd exception it was there. Liam had the starry-eyed look of one anticipating grand romances (none, Yevgen felt would be coming. Even the youngest of the knights in Kay's force – at eighteen – would balk at a fifteen year old, especially one who looked young for his years like Liam). Dhugal was looking hardly less anticipatory. Yevgen inwardly suppressed a groan. And his friends and sisters had accused _him _of being hopelessly romantic. Kelson and Rasoul, however, looked more like they were assimilating little bits of odd information they had managed to gather, some of it finally making sense. 

"My niece…" Rasoul trailed off. 

Yevgen nodded. "A more accurate definition of 'Dama', I would think, would be that it is the feminine of 'Sir'. We don't use 'Lord' and 'Lady' as titles. As for your niece, the treaty with the House of al-Jedin does clearly state that a daughter of the House attend the Knights' Academy." 

"Yevgen?" the voice was that of Queen Kalasin. Liam immediately stood up straight and brushed invisible spots from his tunic. "Yevgen, what is that thing being brought…oh, Good Morning, I hope that you have rested well," the last was directed to their visitors. 

"A mere disturbance only, Highness," Kelson thought to soothe the Queen – after all, as her husband had just said, she was not a knight. She wouldn't do things like carve up a living corpse with a knife she happened to carry up her sleeve. She was a noble lady – of the type he was more familiar with. It wouldn't do for her to become hysterical, as noble ladies were wont to do. 

"Something unanticipated. The wraith-servants are out early. Buran and the patrol brought one back – er – alive." 

"What happened?" Kalasin asked. 

"It's not alive now," Yevgen said. "Radanae ripped its heart out." 

The matter-of-fact tone shocked Kelson more than the fact that Yevgen was telling his Queen quite so bluntly. 

"Oh? Where have you got it?" the skirts of the simply-cut (but undeniably expensive) blue dress that the Queen wore swished impatiently. 

"It's in the second armoury – it's cooler there," Kelson noticed that Yevgen was getting up from the stone benches where the five of them had been sitting, as though he anticipated having to move soon. 

Kalasin nodded in satisfaction. "Have someone run upstairs and get my surgery kit," she informed her husband, making to move down the corridor in the direction that guards had taken the corpse. "We'll have to have a closer look at it." 

Liam gaped after the object of his worship wide-eyed, and even Dhugal looked surprised at the Queen's calm acceptance of the creature, as his feet seemed to follow her own their own accord down the long stone-lined passage.   
  


_Note: To make it perfectly clear, Noor and Rasoul are having Turkish-style coffee – the sort you have to drink with a fork, while Radanae, etc prefer café lattes and cappuccinos. I have also assumed that hunting in these worlds is rather analogous to golf in the corporate world when it comes to negotiations._   



	10. Making Sense

_Note: Since it's come to my attention that some people are reading this story (thanks to everyone who is reading it, by the way), without reading the first two in the series, I'm now including little notes at the end of chapters to explain any references to minor characters who were introduced in either 'Kalasin's betrothal' or 'Queen Kalasin', to make things a little easier to follow. I'm starting with Lara, Corin, Selera, Teleri, and Rory. If people would find it useful, I can answer queries anyone may have about the invented characters, or the Empire, or I could just write random bits of trivia at the end._

Making Sense 

Richenda was already stirring when Morgan opened his eyes. The bed was comfortable – very comfortable, the linens crisp and soft at the same time, and embroidered… 

He gathered that the Imperials had a very formidable intelligence service – from their extremely efficient dismantling of what few, tentative probes he had dared place into their territory – but they really didn't have to be so obvious about it. The large room in the spacious guest wing had very, very clearly been reserved for the Duke and Duchess of Corwyn – just as the other six rooms that the principal guests from Torenth and Gwynedd now inhabited – had clearly been prepared for them in mind. 

The primary theme of the room was green and black, sleek and elegant. There were gryphons very subtly embroidered on the edges of the bedcovers, the curtains, even on the thick carpets underfoot. 

Corwyn's colours – and Corwyn's crest. 

It had been the same in the other rooms – Haldane scarlet and lions, the Furstan hart, the colours of Cassan, Kierney, Transha – even the signs of the Knights of the Anvil and Nur Hallaj for Azim, and the colours of Rasoul's family and clan – but placed in such a artless, graceful manner that who was to say that it was not mere coincidence? The fittings suited each room perfectly, as though they were always there – and Morgan knew perfectly well that they would not be. 

They were the only ones in the wing – though there were several empty rooms still. The Imperial Ambassador presumably had a suite elsewhere. 

"There's a lot more to all of them than they let us see," Richenda continued their conversation from last night. "There's something very important that Noor is trying to tell Lord Rasoul and my uncle (Richenda called Azim 'uncle' even though the relationship as a lot more vague than that) – and it's not that she drinks. A lot." 

"You've said that," Morgan moved so that he was facing her. 

"I can't help but think there's something important that we're missing." She made an exasperated noise. "I haven't seen her since before she was ten or so. Wilful, even as a child," she shook her head. 

The enjoyed the comfort of the bed, of each others' company for a few more moments. 

"Kelson doesn't seem to like King Yevgen very much," Richenda began. "How odd. I would have thought that they'd have a lot in common." 

"Perhaps that's why," Morgan shifted uneasily. "Kelson has never really had anyone his own age who has evidently shared so many of the same experiences. Dhugal may be a Duke, and with holdings scarcely less extensive than Kelson's own – but there is still a vast difference between ducal and regal scales. Conall, of course, didn't qualify." 

There was a moment of silence that follow that. Conall – Prince Nigel's eldest son, Rothana's husband – executed for treason nearly four long years ago. Conall had been only too keenly aware of his rank – and rankled at his status as the eldest son of a second son. (The sketchy Imperial Intelligence presence in the Eleven Kingdoms had been referring to him as 'that unbearable little brat', long before they'd sent back news of his death). Conall had felt that rank – and power – was his rightful due, and one he felt was entitled to by virtue of his birth – not, as Kelson saw it, as a privilege, a duty, and a heavy responsibility. 

How, Morgan suspected, both the King and Queen of Sarain saw it too. 

"No," Richenda agreed. "But now – here is someone of his own rank, his own age, and quite close to his own character." 

"Who happens to know a lot more about us than we know about them." Morgan reminded her. "Kelson's almost always had the upper hand when it comes to direct confrontations – it was more definitely not pleasant to realise that somebody else could use similar techniques to him, and do it even better." 

For here, in private, with only Richenda who was the other half of his soul, he could admit to that little bit of disloyalty to his King. It was true, though. Kelson, even though he had 'heretic Deryni' powers, even though he had plunged the kingdom into several wars since coming to the Throne, commanded considerable devotion from his subjects. Whether polished courtiers or blunt border clansmen, they all united under their young King. Kelson held an enviable position in the Eleven Kingdoms – ruler of the largest, and most powerful of the kingdoms, charismatic, wealthy, with skilful and largely wise councillors. Although he was only a few months a widower (for the second time), there were already tentative whispers in foreign courts, and eligible young ladies from all of the Eleven Kingdoms had already found excuses to visit relatives in Gwynedd. Those actually in the King's counsel knew that all the young ladies' (and their relatives') hopes were doomed to failure. Kelson was determined not the marry again, and for once, no one on the Council, not even the reliably blunt Duke Ewan of Calibourne, was going to try and change that. Both the King's previous forays into matrimony had ended in absolute disaster, and the main (and, to Kelson, only) reason for marriage – an heir of his own body – had been achieved, twice over. As far as Kelson saw it – he had done his duty. There were Richard and Brion, two healthy, strong young princes – enough to secure the succession, even without the ever-reliable Prince Nigel, and after him, his sons, Prince Rory, the nineteen-year-old Viceroy of Meara, and Prince Payne, who had just come to his majority. Rothana intended her young son, Albin, to enter the Church, and so be removed from the succession (no matter Albin's opinion on the matter). 

But now – another young King – who evidently commanded much the same devotion, who had the same talents for leadership and rule. Morgan had sensed that Kelson had felt uneasy around Liam's southern neighbour. It wasn't just that they were in Yevgen's territory – more than that, though it was part of it. Pack-leaders, both of them, and they had been circling each other like a pair of wary young wolves the previous afternoon and evening, though Yevgen hid it much better than Morgan's charge, and so, had come out the winner in the undeclared contest. 

Then – there was Kalasin. He supposed even Richenda could forgive him an admiring look or two at the Queen of Sarain. Beautiful, poised – but even more than that – truly regal, commanding in a way he'd never seen before in a young woman. Added to that, she was the mother of a healthy baby daughter, and seemed to show absolutely no ill effects from childbirth – quite the opposite, in fact. There was a vivaciousness and sheer joy in life in her that was impossible to describe. Kelson must have wondered, even for a second, why Fate had decided to bestow upon someone so close to him all the joy that had been torn away. 

Richenda caught his train of thought. "Queen Kalasin – there's something about her, too." 

"She's very direct," Morgan recalled, remembering that the Queen had participated whole-heartedly in the conversations at the table the previous evening – not just inconsequential exchanges that any hostess could make, about gardens, and the state of the roads, but detailed, and complex analysis of their situation. She showed an astute understanding of both magic and politics, though she had been a trifle more subdued about the former. 

"More than that," Richenda insisted. "think, Alaric. Most ladies at home who are 'direct' as you so put it, do so because it's not entirely proper. Kalasin speaks as though it's perfectly natural for her to have full voice in the discussion, and to be taken seriously." There was a significant note in Richenda's voice. Even after years as her older son's Regent, and years sitting on Kelson's Council, she still had trouble being taken seriously. Even for Richenda, a married Queen who took absolute authority for granted (there were several sovereign Princesses – her aunt Sofiana of Andelon, for one – but they had all inherited their positions in their own right, and married 'below' themselves) would have been a shock. 

"According to the treaties that the Empire signed with Tortall to arrange their marriage, she does have equal authority to the King," Morgan mused, squinting past the curtains around the bed to the window, and wondering if they should get up. "But I never thought that the Empire would bother to take those seriously once they got her here. Why would they bother?" 

"Oh?" Richenda raised an eyebrow, an imitation of her husband's distinctive gesture. 

"Queen Kalasin is granddaughter to the last legitimate ruler of Sarain," Morgan explained, "her mother, Queen Thayet of Tortall, was the only child of the Warlord Adijun and his K'mir wife. That makes her the tangible link for the Imperials to have to the country – but – we saw yesterday – there are significant numbers of Imperial troops here – and King Yevgen has support in his own right…" he drifted off. 

There was a knocking at the door. 

"Who is it?" Morgan called irritably, reluctantly rising from the warmth of the bed, but reaching under the pillow for the long dagger he habitually kept close to hand before belting his robe around his waist. 

"Me. Duncan," came his cousin's voice through the door. "Are you decent?" 

"Wait a moment," Morgan called. Behind him, Richenda slid out of bed and dressed as quickly as she could without the assistance of her maid (who, after long years in service, knew very well not to come into the ducal bedchamber before she was called). 

Richenda briskly pushed her hair under her veil before Morgan opened the door to a rather bemused-looking Duncan, looking especially unecclesiastical in plain, though well-made tunic and breeches, showing no signs of either his clerical, or former ducal rank. 

He caught his cousin's look. "Ah, well. I'm here as a private advisor, not a priest. Besides, there's no chapel here. Would you like to take a look at breakfast?" he asked. 

All the bedrooms in the guest wing opened to a large central room, furnished with dining table, desks, and cushioned couches and chairs. 

The table was set for four, and there was evidence (but only if one looked very closely), of there having been an earlier sitting for a meal, long since cleared away. 

"I assume that Lord Rasoul and the youngsters were up at a decidedly unpleasant hour," Duncan echoed his cousin's conclusions. "But look at the table." 

He did, and let his jaw drop. For, neatly placed on the table, some on little warming plates, was everything that he, Duncan or Richenda preferred for a light breakfast – which was usually a rushed affair, in any case. Several types of bread, all fresh-baked, butters, honeys, an orchard of conserves, and many other things – some of them unrecognisable, and which he assumed were Prince Azim's favourites. Ale, at room temperature or resting in a bowl of crushed ice, Richenda's favourite tea, and a bitter-smelling black substance of which Prince Azim was regarding a cupful with what was very close of sheer bliss.   
  


"…an extension of life after death, of a sort, with all capacities still functional, though it's not considered good practice to continue it for so short a time, as the body begins to decay, despite the skills of the mage – because it's not so much as extending life as reanimating the corpse – much less draining for the mage. This particular technique was used during Hé Xi Nieméa's campaign in Bewekiria to keep some of her most gifted field strategists…er…around." Radanae, still looking a tad green around the gills despite her new layer of carefully applied makeup, was standing with her back resolutely to the stone slab where the corpse lay. She had a large stack of magical grimores beside her, but she had not opened them, but was occassionaly glancing at a stack of hand-written notes. 

They were in the second armoury, where the corpse had been laid out. It was also designed to function as a morgue, as the Imperials were very practical when it came to castle design, but they didn't like to challenge their Lady Fate by calling such a large room such, so they used it to store bulk weaponry. 

Lord Rasoul had examined the weaponry on the walls and racks with interest, and professional approval. 

"Really?" Yevgen was stationed rather closer to the corpse, which Kalasin was expertly disecting under the fascinated gazes of King Liam and Duke Dhugal. "I can't remember that being on the reading list…" 

"It's not. It's notes from my mother's new treatise on the use of magic in the military campaigns in the Year of the Six Dictators. She gave it to us - Kay, Jussie, La – me," she cut off the name, "…to have a read-through before she sent it off to the publishers because she knows that we were all interested in that sort of thing. We were at the House in Selanir for Rory's wedding." 

Kelson's head shot up at the mention of his cousin's name in such an unexpected context. 

"My brother, not your cousin the Viceroy of Meara, Majesty," Radanae didn't skip a beat, though she was not facing the King of Gwynedd. "Congratulations on _his_ recent marriage, by the way." 

The sound of Kalasin's sharp instruments was suddenly very loud in the silent room. "Nothing of any import," the Queen's voice was clear as she dropped the last scalpel and scissors into a bowl of alcohol on a small table (to disinfect them). "All I can say that he's been dead for several days, and was a relatively healthy man in his thirties. Noble, but heritage unknown." 

"Not an Imperial knight, though," Yevgen was bending down, examining the back of the neck. 

"How can you tell?" Kally was curious. 

Yevgen looked at her. "No recovery-marks," he told her, then, when she showed incomprehension, pulled aside the neck of his tunic and turned around so that she could see an extremely small tattoo at the very base of his neck. It looked like a very dark freckle, which was probably why she had missed it before, even with her detailed explorations of her husband, but now that she looked closely, she could see that it was in a fact a very tiny representation of his personal arms, surrounded by the intricate design that signified his graduation year. Easy to miss, it was discernible only to someone who knew his sign, or who had a magnifying glass. "Identification after battle," he told her shortly, turning around to face her. "We have them done after we're knighted, common soldiers simply have their identification numbers on their arms after they enlist. No enlistment tattoo either, so there goes that idea." 

"What idea?" Kelson asked his counterpart, interested in the idea, though he had no idea how he could convince his army to subject themselves to such a procedure. 

"If he'd had a mark – of either kind – it would be filed in the Army Offices back in the capital, together with his name, home town, birth date – so we have a start to how he got here." He took a deep breath. "I'll have someone come in and clean it up. Meanwhile, my lords, shall we adjourn to meet again in the upper gallery in say, half an hour?" 

Kelson agreed, and they all left the morgue, Kelson and his companions heading back to the guest quarters to inform the rest of their party about the extraordinary developments.   
  


"I didn't want to say this before," Radanae started when the visitors were out of earshot, "but to attempt something of this complexity, takes several months, even possibly a year since the first burst of power." 

Yevgen froze. "And?" Kally signalled for a further explanation. 

"Blood mages don't just – appear – no matter how much we would like to think so," Radanae continued, rather quickly leaving the armoury. "They spring up in times of – trouble – with death and suffering everywhere so that they can gain their initial power quickly, without going to the trouble of it themselves. It takes a huge amount of power to raise a wraith – more than simply one death, though that it what it seems, as it is the final step. What a blood mage needs to begin their rise is a surge in blood magic – and we haven't had any wars or mass…" she stopped dead and whipped around. "But we did have an enlarged Display last year. Double." 

"Could that have been it?" Yevgen was dead white under the make-up he used to cover his freckles while they had visitors. (Freckles didn't quite equate with the image of a warrior-king, not even the tiny sun-sprinkle Yevgen had. He was a perfectionist. And vain). 

"Very possibly. It was spectacularly bloody, if you have to know. Two sand changes." 

"Oh _Gods_, Ris!" he exploded quietly. "So _clever_. So _economical_. But the chaos!" 

"What's a Display?" Kalasin hadn't missed the capital letter that Radanae had used in the word. 

Radanae glared at Yevgen. "You've not told Kalasin?" 

"It's not something that comes up in conversation!" Yevgen said defensively, and glared back at his friend. He clearly didn't want her around when he did explain it. 

For once, she complied with his silent request. The Ambassador brought a hand oh-so-casually up to her eye. "Oh dear!" she exclaimed, brushing her hand against her lashes, "I _seem_ to have smudged my mascara. Excuse me." She turned and left in the direction of her rooms. 

Yevgen watched her until she was well up the stairs. 

"Well?" Kally asked, impatient. It was obviously something important. 

Yevgen sighed and pulled her into an empty room, making sure doors and windows were closed, and there were no listeners in the sitting room before starting. 

"I've told you about the Trials of Knighthood, haven't I? How we're ranked within our year, and how that determines if we get our choices of first assignments?" 

Kalasin nodded. 

"Good. Well…ah…about a week after the knighting ceremonies, there's the Display, ostensibly an exhibition by the ten best knights of the year. The official histories have it as the original test of skill of a knight – though it also has it origins in a mixture of blood magic, of social control, of sheer…efficiency. Now…the Display takes place after the knightings, every year, at around midsummer. You've seen the Arena, haven't you?" 

Kally nodded impatiently. Yes, she had been shown the vast structure – it was a huge amphitheatre that could seat well over 100 000 – when she was in Bersone the winter before last for Rislyn's coronation, but she knew that Yevgen was getting to something much more important. 

He seemed to be consciously forcing himself to go on. "They hold all the death-sentenced prisoners for several months previous for it – as the Display is their death. The pick of the new knightly crop have to demonstrate their skills with sword and horse against twenty or so condemned each." 

"They have to kill them?" Kalasin's voice was quiet. 

He nodded. "In the Arena. It's the social event of the year. It's the only public execution in the capital. Each of the condemned is offered a second chance in life – a pardon, a bag of copper – if they make it out alive. If they kill the knight who is assigned to them. That hasn't happened in recorded history. As you may imagine, an enormous amount of blood and death energy is released in the process." He gave a grimace. "It's extremely popular. Tickets for the common seats can go for half a year's wage for a labourer on the black market. Last year…last year…Rislyn more than doubled the numbers of condemned – nearly five hundred – she had to have them brought in from far reaches of the Empire, because, for _some_ reason, there's a huge drop in crime around the summer months in the capital, as the judges – whether consciously or not – have to get the death-cells full. She also doubled the numbers of the knights who took part – the top twenty. It made her very popular. Strengthened her as someone strong on law and order. Also probably released enough death energy to give whoever-this-is some ideas." His jaw was tight. 

"Yevgen?" Kally asked tentatively, as though she didn't want to hear the answer, but had to have it anyway. "In your year…did you…" 

He knew what she was going to ask. 

"No. I came in seventeenth – and, at any rate, I had two broken legs at the time – I was hardly going to go charging in with those." He stopped, but from the look in her eyes, knew she was asking more. "In my year…Justinia came first, Kay came second. I don't think you've met any of the others." 

"Do you think Rislyn's considered it?" Kalasin asked as they made to leave to room. 

"I think not. She'll have considered all the political ramifications – the popular support, the quieting of suggestions that she's just a soft political dilettante even the murmuring of those in Council who remember the glory days of our grandmother and think Kay is more suited to carry on the tradition. She won't have considered the possibility of blood magic. She's too sensitive a mage to want that sort of impact on herself." 

"Excuse me?" 

"She is a mage. A very powerful one. So's Kay, but she doesn't make as much of an issue of it. Too many people see her as a viable alternative as it is." 

"I thought the Gift was rare." 

"It is. _Very_. But somehow the Empresses and Heirs always seem to chose Gifted or Talented Consorts – Corin's actually quite a skilled Healer, by the way, nowhere near you, of course, but good enough. After twenty or thirty Consorts, it's a little hard not to have the Gift in the family. Or be without Talent of some description." 

They had been moving all this time, and were now at the door of their room. 

Kalasin waited until the door was closed before her carefully constructed mask disintegrated. No one, not even the servants, or indeed a close friend was to see this side of her. 

"What _were_ you thinking?" she told him fiercely. "Just standing there while that…thing was flailing around." 

"It was out for barely a second," he defended, but not at all objecting, or removing her tight grip around him. 

"You could have died," she continued. "I could have lost you. I don't know what I would do without you." The last was said with a most unqueenly sniffle into his shirt. 

There was a momentary tension in him, but the he relaxed. Drawing away slightly, he placed one long finger under her chin and tilted it up. "Kalasin, please, look at me," the tones were soft, but even. She did. "Kally, I will _never_ leave you. _Ever_." He was looking directly into her eyes, and there was truth there, complete honesty. 

He meant it. Every word, every sentiment. But there was something under his words, something that not even his superb diplomatic training could hide – something Kally herself could not have spotted even eighteen months ago. 

Whatever it was, though she didn't have time to ponder it, as he showed her, most definitely that he was very much alive. 

_Notes:___

_Dama Felara (Lara) Eriel. Imperial knight, graduated 43rd in a class of 1019. Approximately 23 years old. Trusted aide to Princess Berenice. Former lover of Yevgen, once tentatively proposed as a possible match. She is intelligent, competent, practical-minded (though with a very well-hidden romantic soul) and a thoroughly nice person. Of medium height by Imperial standards (5'9), very pretty, with dark red hair just short of black, amber eyes, gold-olive complexion, and an impression of great delicacy and fragility – immediately refuted whenever anyone sees her fight - and looks a little like Natalie Portman.___

_Sir Corin Neshan. Imperial knight. Consort to the Empress Rislyn, father of her daughter Ishtar. A well-regarded mage, warrior and political analyst. Noted for a strong (and very highly prized) Healing talent. Aged in his late twenties, a couple of years older than Rislyn (who is 26). Looks rather like Hugh Jackman, though with dark hair and blue-green eyes. Calm, perceptive and diplomatic, he is the perfect political spouse.___

_Dama Selera Carloni. Imperial knight, recently married to Sir Rory Gavrillian. Aged about 25, she is extremely beautiful, with dark hair and amber eyes, and looks like Catherine Zeta-Jones. While at the Knights' Academy, won a small fortune in gold for taking Yevgen's virginity. She has matured since then, and is a very capable politician and warrior, well respected and highly regarded among both peers and superiors. Her loyalty to the Empire is unquestioned, as is her love for Rory Gavrillian. Radanae thinks she's a bitch, but tolerates her for Rory's sake.___

_Sir Rory Gavrillian. Imperial knight. Radanae's older brother. Looks a bit like Omar Sharif, aged 25. Very tall (6'5), graduated 22nd in a class of 1067 and doing exceptionally well in his military career. It is anticipated that he might one day make it to Field Commander, the highest military post, second only to the Empress in times of war (a role, curiously enough, nearly always taken by a man). Married to Dama Selera Carloni, and is very much in love with her, but is aware of her faults. Is on good terms with both his younger brother and sister, but is perfectly aware that they never listen to his advice.___

_General Dama Teleri Gavrillian. Imperial knight, Duxa Tertia. Very famous warrior, strategist, and commander, author of military, political and magical treatises. Under the Empresses Berenice VI and Vanaria III, appointed governor of numerous provinces. Matriarch of the House of Gavrillian, one of the richest and most powerful in the Empire, with holdings that exceed those of the Empresses. Known for her sense of ruthless practicality, eloquence, deep intellect, and still-incredible skill on the battlefield and practice court. Currently a member of the Empress Rislyn's Council. In her early fifties, she is married to Senator Sir Amergin Petronil, a well-known military historian and tactician. They have three children, all knights; Rory (25), Radanae (23) and Kelvar (21).___

_If people have any other questions, or any other characters they want more details on, please email or ask! Most do have complete histories._   



	11. Scenes

_Nothing much happens here. I thought I'd just tidy up some of the the scenes I had already written (I write out of order, so yes, I do know what is going to happen in the next ten chapters or so – roughly – connecting the scenes is the hard bit) and post them before I actually started revising for exams. I've also put a few more character bios (including RoseFyre's character!) and notes on Imperial culture in the preceeding chapter, if anyone's interested in things like government structure, currency, and fashion. Note: Since I don't have kids (and don't intend to, either), I have no idea what breastfeeding's like, so if I am drastically wrong, tell me please. Enjoy!_

**Scenes**

The note was very uncharacterisitcally blunt, but it conveyed the message. Rislyn folded the card over and crossed from the table where she kept her communications-equipment and moved to the collection of more comfortable chairs in her private quarters. 

Late at night, it looked like a simple gathering of her closest advisors – mainly older women –mothers, too – and it was ostenibly to ask advice on the rearing of her daughter, Ishtar, with the few exceptions added in to make it seem official. 

That was how it was _meant_ to look. 

Without a word, Rislyn passed the short note around. A few eyebrows raised, a nod or two. 

"It does fit," Teleri Gavrillian was never verbose – a characteristic her daughter made up for in spades – but the General conveyed all that she had to. 

"Fool!" Rislyn paced the room, incredibly, utterly, disgusted with herself. It hadn't seemed like much. People thought she was soft, did they? Well she'd show them. 

Last summer, she had. The Guard had gone into the mountains and completely cleaned out the bandit gangs, bringing them back to the capital, where the law courts had pronounced the death sentence on them all – never mind that for some, at other times, the penality would have been no more than five years' hard labour in the mines or so. In the cities – even the middle-band slave-traders were sentenced to death, when it was customarily only the slave-takers and the brothel-suppliers who were sent to the Display –the lower-rankers should only have had all their property seized, and sentenced to labour. 

It wasn't much. A firmer grip on the criminals, a judicious 'spring clean'. Not a lot of extra effort, not a lot of extra cash, but it had reinforced her creditials as a stern Lady of Justice adequately enough. 

Four hundred and seventy-eight. She knew every name. Every home. Every face. She sentenced them to death, so she went to watch – with about another hundred thousand people. 

She felt the energy released. No mage of any power did not. It flowed around her. Consumed her. Sickened her. She couldn't stop retching for days afterwards. The fact that she was also suffering an extended bout of morning sickness only made it much, much worse. She had thought that the vomiting was the only effects of it. 

Clearly not so. 

"There's been no reports of anything untoward anywhere," the voice was clear, refined. Victoria Ferox, the Empire's foremost lawyer offered her opinion. She was also one of Benazai Urraca's seconds – the one that hardly anyone knew about. "No reports of any unauthorized travel west to Sarain, not a large number of applications for travel west. No reports of large numbers travelling west," she was thorough. 

"If they're seeing reanimation, I would think that they've got days and weeks, rather than weeks and months, to deal with the problem," that was Giselle Delmaran, Rislyn's aunt – officially just passing through the capital to report to her niece the condition of the large province she was governing, and to see her two daughters at the Academy. 

Rislyn nodded tightly, also knowing that perfectly well. She had miscalculated. Badly. 

For the first time she could remember, she had no idea what to do.   
  
  


"Did you see what she did after that?" Liam hadn't stopped talking since they left the morgue-like armoury. 

Practice was going on as normal on the courts outside, though most of the fighters were giving them wary glances. Warned, now, Kelson could see that perhaps a third of them were female. He supposed he should have shocked him. But he had just seen a reanimated corpse, a female diplomat gutting the reanimated corpse, and the most refined, delicate, regal Queen in the world calmly cutting it to bits with a full surgeon's kit, her husband doing nothing more than looking on in an interested fashion and helping when asked to do so. 

Kelson was really beyond shocks for the morning. What he needed was a drink. A _big_ one. That in mind, they made their way back to their rooms, Liam still talking all the way. 

The others – Morgan, Richenda, Duncan, Azim were sitting down for a light breakfast. Everything had been changed since they had risen with the dawn, to be greated with pitchers of ale and cider, and baskets of fresh-baked bread and creamy butter. A soft clatter signalled the arrival of servants, who took one look at the newcomers and set more places at the table. No trenchers of stale bread here – all the plates were of glazed earthenware, the cups of translucent porcelin. The entire air of refinement and limitless wealth was almost stifling. 

Morgan could see that something troubled the four, but before he could ask, Liam sat down at the table, took a roll from the fresh basket laid in front of them, and spilled out the events of the entire morning. 

"Female knights?" Morgan thought his eyebrows would disappear into his air. 

"Oh, not so preposterous as you might think, my lord," Azim looked more amused than anything else. "Why, in many lands ladies are expected to defend their own honour. I would think that someone would take it to its natural conclusions. R'Kassi, especially, has a proud history of warrior Queens, does it not, my lord Rasoul?" 

Rasoul muttered in the affirmative, more interested in his breakfast. 

Azim continued. "And not a few from the al-Jedins, when they held the throne." 

"You _knew_." From Richenda, it was no question. 

"Let's say I _suspected._" Azim corrected mildly. "A few things finally began to come together when we arrived yesterday. I was almost certain at dinner, after we met Dama Radanae. I was planning to see whether my suspicions were confirmed today, but I see that I no longer need to do so." 

  


Radanae knew that it was hopeless to expect that either Yevgen and Kalasin would get to the meeting on time. She'd been around violent death often enough (and most reluctantly) to know its inevitable effects on established lovers, who seemed to need to confirm the others' safety in fairly intimate ways. It was annoying (and occassionally embarassing) when she had been assigned the duty of head-count after skirmishes, positively irritating in the King and Queen who had a country to run, and a blood-mage to fight. 

The short note to Rislyn was necessary, even though the sending of it, even with the enhancing equipment, left her feeling ten times worse than she imagined Noor had this morning. She wondered how the Empress would take it – scratch that, she already knew. Not at all well. Rislyn was devastatingly intelligent, almost (in Radanae's opinion), as Radanae herself was, and was just as proud of the fact. 

If the matter wasn't so grave, it might almost have been positive. Rislyn had been getting over-confident of late, especially since last year's Display had shown, in the most comprehensive way, that she was not reluctant to shed blood when it needed to be shed, and the fact that there had been almost no incidents to speak of, whether from foreign powers, border unrest, internal strife, or even serious political manipulations. 

The closet republican in Radanae was of the firm opinion that all absolute rulers – even those as competent as Rislyn – needed to be kept on their toes. Economists made incredibly tiresome despots. Tyranny simply isn't as glamorous when the tyrant prefers revising her tax code to impaling people, even though it's a much more painful, and much more efficient way of making people suffer. Easier on the laundry bills, too.   
  
  
  


The first thing that Kally and Yevgen became aware of was the piercing scream of a very hungry baby, penetrating the sated, easy langour of the lovers like nothing else on earth. Kalasin sighed and reached for her bedside table for her robe, shrugging it on easily while padding to the next room. She heard the whisper of the sheets that indicated that Yevgen, however, reluctantly was rising from the bed and grabbing his robe too. 

Kally had chosen to nurse Lillias herself, an act that brought scandalised whispers from the Saren noblewomen, who farmed their babies out to wetnurses in the country so that they could concentrate on regaining their figures or providing more children for their lords, though the K'mir gave her their silent approval. The Imperials seemed to take it as a given that she would feed her own child. Yevgen didn't seem to have an opinion on the matter, though he was solicitous about getting up at night when Lillias was screaming for something other than food, and he was really getting the hang of changing nappies, despite the actions of the Saren nurse in driving him away with clucks of disapproval whenever she caught him doing so. 

That was one reason they hadn't brought the Saren nursemaid, Alijen, though she was otherwise very good with little Lillias. On this sojourn, details of which they wanted to remain as quiet as possible, the Saren royals would have to tend the little princess themselves, though with the devoted assistance of Callum, Yevgen's valet, and Mariella, Kally's maid, who both adored the baby. 

Lillias stopped screaming just as Kalasin lifted her out of her cradle and carried her over to a comfortable armchair placed a few steps from the crib. They were used to the routine now, and Lillias settled in for her breakfast with a contented little sigh. 

Moments like this…they could be just any mother, any little baby girl. Not Queen and Princess, however unofficially (they were following the Imperial tradition – no formal title of princess unless and until she became a knight – her name was already down for the Academy), and the man in the room could have been just…anyone – not a King, a Prince and a knight - just her husband and lover. Tiny moments of peace…where they could just be…them. She lifted her eyes briefly to her husband's. Their gazes held over Lillias's dark, fuzzy head, and Kalasin knew that he, too, felt the same.   
  
  


Radanae had made sure that she presented a deliberately frivolous scene when the guests from Gwynedd and Torenth arrived in the upper gallery. She was re-painting her nails at the conference table, which was piled high with papers. Well, her nails needed to be done anyway. Coloured laquer reminded her not to chew them, a nervous habit she had thought she had stopped in her teens. Evidently not, as she had caught herself biting them time and time again in the last few days, though luckily all those times had been in private. 

She could see the confusion in their faces. Good. Female knights they had just managed to swallow. Female knights who calmly gave themselves manicures…no. 

"Good morning, my lords, my ladies," she stood and bowed, Empress's Ambassador to visiting dignatries. "I am afraid that their Majesties have been delayed somewhat." She made sure that there was a deliberate, slight quirk of her eyebrows that would have told their visitors _just_ what the King and Queen were doing that had delayed them so. She observed them closely, to see who understood. 

Young Liam did, of course – silly of her to think that a fifteen year old boy would not. Lord Rasoul – lips tight in disapproval – no wonder Noor enjoyed flustering her uncle so much, if he was such a prude. Prince Azim – eyes dancing with amusement, at the joys of youth. A clever one, this – she would need to watch him. Perhaps he had not had the careful training an Imperial agent would have had, but he was roughly twice her age, and she knew that experience was the best teacher. The Duke and Duchess of Corwyn, of course, both still disgustingly in love even after so many years. They shared a bond not unlike the one that was so-gradually springing up between Yevgen and Kalasin, whether the two of them noticed it or not – one more powerful than simply affection, one that bound more than just bodies, minds, and hearts – but souls too. She wouldn't be surprised if they had been engaged in such behaviour shortly before the meeting. Bishop Duncan – well, there was a surprise. She had heard that he had kept faithfully to his vows of celibacy since he entered the priesthood – which meant that it had to be well over two decades since he'd…at any rate, it wasn't something she expected a priest with such vows to comprehend quite so quickly. The son – Dhugal was barely one and twenty, after all – put him in with the younger Liam – there was no way that he could misunderstand. What was a surprise was that Kelson did not seem to. Whether it might be a deliberate misinterpretation – apparently, he'd sworn off marriage forever, and for him that meant a vow of celibacy – just because the Gwyneddi were odd like that, or whether his marriage had been so lacking in passion she didn't know. She doubted the latter. The twin boys had been born less than a year after the wedding. Since the parents were closely related enough for their to have been effects on fertility…she stopped her mind before it went down that path. Things were different in the Eleven Kingdoms, she told herself. She was profoundly grateful for Noor, who knew all the genealogies of the nobility there. She had a feeling that any attempt to chart them would result in first prize at the annual Abstract Interpretive Art exhibition at the Imperial Gallery. At any rate, that was not her job, for which she was thankful. 

A slight movement at the door heralded the entrance of the King and Queen. She bowed again, formally, as they walked in, followed by a very harried-looking Noor, still straightening her tunic (her room was just down the hall a bit). Evidently one of the servants had taken some initiative and decided that discussions on a walking corpse took precedence over sleeping off a hangover. Radanae made a mental note to leave him or her a tip, especially when she saw the neat little packet of headache-powders next to the teacup at Noor's place at the table. 

There was a little start out of the corner of her eye. She caught King Kelson's gaze – directed towards Kalasin. Curious, she followed it. Kelson didn't seem the sort who would indulge in the seduction of foriegn Queens – but then again, not everything got on peoples' dossiers, even those as detailed as the ones kept by the Service. Then, when she saw what it really was, she almost laughed aloud. 

Kalasin would not have noticed – she had evidently dressed quickly, not looking in the mirror once she noticed the time. But revealed in the low neckline of the dress, under a gold charm that radiated power, was the unmistakeable mark of a love-bite, that most definetly had not been there while they were in the morgue. 

Kelson hadn't been looking at Kalasin, but rather at Yevgen, who was just behind his wife, and rather solicitously holding a chair out for her (something he never did for anyone else). The two kings' eyes met over Kalasin's head. Yevgen's gaze was clear. _She's mine_. 

Radanae had to try very hard to force her face into a mask of diplomatic pleasantness. What an unexpected occurance. The appearance of another king – same age – in fact, exactly the same age as Kalasin, handsome, with an appropriately unhappy, unfortunate past, especially where women were concerned - had rattled the Saren King like nothing before. Something about Kelson – whatever it was – had brought out a primal, almost possessive side to Radanae's sophisticated friend – a side she'd never seen before. 

She sat back. 

This was going to be good.   



	12. Next Bit

The One I Wrote When I Should Have Been Studying

"Thank goodness for 'Danae," Kay remarked, folding up the neat script. "If we left it up to my darling brother we'd ever know anything." 

It was not a criticism, but a bald statement of fact. 

"So the reanimation has started?" Felara Eriel, Kay's other second, paused momentarily as she tightened the girth of her saddle. Her large dun gelding snorted impatiently, stamping one steel-shod hoof on the hard rock. 

"So it would seem," Kay nodded grimly, then turned to her former roommate, her brother's ex-lover. "You're sure you want to come? Last chance to chicken out and go inspecting forts instead." 

"The first blood mage in millennia? Are you daft?" Lara's delicate brush-stroke eyebrows went up, incredulous. "If you're worried about that little _fling_ I had with your brother when we were hardly more than children, you needn't bother. It's been more than three years, after all. He seems happy with Queen Kalasin. I've found others – several others – since. We're all adults now, and I fail to see that a little matter like that should affect anything." 

Kay didn't regard a three-and-a-half year relationship serious enough to have the beginnings of real negotiations between the two families, young as the two participants were, as a 'little matter', no matter Lara's glib remark. (Of course, there were more reasons than sheer affection that had made the Empress Vanaria consider the match – both political and magical) Then again, Kay, like most knights their age, counted her romances in weeks and months (occasionally hours or days) – but certainly not years. 

Kay continued to tap the little scrap of paper, absently feeding a scrap of dry biscuit to the exhausted messenger-pigeon who had found them on these mountains. They had spotted Yevgen's message towers early that morning – with luck, and a long ride through the night, they should reach his summer retreat by the following afternoon. She sighed and put her boot in the stirrup, Nightwraith stirring restlessly. She had been concerned that the black stallion was just a little bit too much of a cliché, when most knights favoured geldings and mares – but when one has raised one's destrier from a foal, and one is a wildmage – one can't quite bear explaining to him just why one has ordered a certain procedure to be carried out. (Her brother's favourite destrier, the bay gelding Everglade, had been bought from another stud as a two-year old). Besides, Nightwraith was an impeccable destrier, near-perfect in every way, a magnificent fighter either as her partner or in his own right, and it would be a waste not to retire him to stud when his military career was over (though Yevgen had inherited their father's justifiably famous stud farm, she had a few of her own). Something that the stallion had told her, repeatedly (usually in very dangerous situations, or while he was injured) that he was very much looking forward to.   
  


"Luckily, word of this hasn't made it off the mountains," despite his changing voice and unconcealed worship of Queen Kalasin, King Liam was very articulate for his years. "It is not the trader-season, and the villagers keep to themselves. No one is going to find it at all remarkable if they do not hear from their neighbours for several weeks, months even." 

"That is a blessing," the nod that Kally graciously inclined towards their northern neighbour had him beaming. "For our part, we're not sure how long our fiction of an earthquake will hold." 

"If that's the problem, an earthquake can be arranged, once her Highness gets here," Radanae put in, deliberately casual. "However, if that happens, I warn you that we won't be responsible for what happens to your frescos and mosaics." 

Yevgen winced visibly. "Let's not…unless as a final resort." 

"Earthquakes." Prince Azim looked questioningly at the Imperials. 

"Not difficult." Radanae shrugged, making the possibility sound a lot easier than it in fact was. "We're on a fault-line. All it needs is a nudge. Though I agree, such actions are notoriously unpredictable." She shot a barely discernible sideways glance at the visitors. Any ideas they might have had of border-extension should be taken care of, temporarily at least. All the routes from the Eleven Kingdoms to Sarain, the Empire and the Eastern Lands would need to go through mountains – and knowing that one's opponents can cause earthquakes averts a lot of waste. 

"Clansman Buran, do you think you can find where you picked up the creature on this map?" Noor brought them all back to the topic in hand, poring over a very detailed map of the mountains closest to the Summer Palace. 

Buran came over to where she stood, then, frowning, traced the route his patrol had taken that morning with a scarred finger, before stopping several miles from the Palace. "Around here," he said, tapping at the line which marked a trail, close to a high peak. "I think…" he began, before he was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside. 

The door was flung open, and a awed-looking servant came in, almost stammering as he bowed and announced "The Dama Yelizabeta Delmaran, my lords and ladies," before stepping aside with a worshipful look at the woman who followed him. 

Kalasin had only seen her husband's cousin-once-removed briefly, the previous year in Maren, during the coronation of King Samash and Queen Natseyah, but one glance showed that she had not exaggerated Lizzie's looks, even in her memory. Yelizabeta, a member of the secretive Empress's Swords, who undertook missions that not even the Imperial Intelligence Service wanted to know about, had been in disguise as the most sought-after courtesan in the Eastern Lands. With good reason. Even in sensible travelling clothes – riding leathers and chain mail – and without the expertly applied cosmetics she had worn in her role, Yelizabeta was hauntingly, impeccably, inhumanly beautiful. Gold hair was neatly pulled into a knot at her nape, deep violet eyes fringed with long lashes seemed to bore into one's soul, wise and all knowing, sensual and penetrating. Every feature was mathematically perfect, her skin flawless, her entire demeanour that of angelic grace. She knew it too – and made the most of it. But that didn't stop all eyes being draw irresistibly towards her. 

Kalasin was aware that their guests were staring. The completely blank look in King Liam's eyes told Kally that she had lost her worshipper. 

Yevgen, however, took no notice. With a genuine smile, he crossed over to his older cousin (though Kally had absolutely no idea precisely how old Lizzie was – she looked ageless – Yevgen had mentioned that she was about a decade their senior), and took her hands before they exchanged pecks on each cheek, a formal salute between family for Imperials. 

"So glad to see you could make it," he was telling her. "You remember my wife, do you not? Kalasin, my cousin Lizzie – you met in Maren last year." 

"How could I forget someone so delightful?" Lizzie's voice, too, completed the image. Slightly lower than one would expect, rich and full, with a light, sensuous trill applied to her 'r's. "I must offer you both congratulations on young Lillias. I'm afraid my own gift is dreadfully overdue," a slight twist of her wrist brought out an engraved silver rattle, the type given as presents by wealthy-childless-aunts-who-prefer-cats-to-children no matter which world one lives in. 

"You Majesties, your Highness, your Graces, my lords, might I present to you my dear cousin, Dama Yelizabeta Delmaran. Cousin, might I make you known to their Majesties King Kelson of Gwynedd and King Liam of Torenth, his Highness Prince Azim Nur Hallaj, their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Corwyn, the Duke of Cassan, the Bishop Duncan McLain, and Lord Rasoul ibn Tarik." 

Bows were exchanged – Liam still staring at the newcomer in complete and utter adoration, and Dhugal only hiding similar feelings slightly more successfully. 

"I have some equipment and such with me, if we should have the need to combat this creature in the more dramatic way. Luckily, I was in Port Sebastia scheduling some tests for Kyra, when the summons came, so it wasn't too far to come." She crossed to the table, where the servants were frantically setting a place for the princess (even though Lizzie did not have the title, there was simply no other way to describe her). "Further research since you left," she nodded at Radanae, "has been unfruitful. There have been no significant increase in travel across the Roof, and certainly no increase in travel worth remarking upon through the northern passes." 

"So at least the mortal followers are not great in number," Yevgen mused. "One thing to be grateful for, at least." 

"At the moment, though, we seem to be stuck with the traditional defences," 

"Traditional?" Dhugal found his voice. 

"Folk superstition, legend, myth, custom, call them what you will. The remnants of old knowledge when these things were more common." She looked wryly amused, "For all our diverse military traditions, for all our superbly trained warriors and immense arsenals, we're reduced to fighting with fairy tales. It is said," she starting, bringing out a folder of travel-stained notes, "that a blood wraith cannot stand the touch of iron, which is why the rituals of offering and sacrifice must be performed with an obsidian blade, nor can it stand the sting of salt." 

Radanae was frowning at the newcomer, "But…" she began. 

"Yes, I _know_ it doesn't make sense," Lizzie answered, "but remember, they made this up before they stumbled across biochemistry, and I, for one, don't want to be in a position to disprove these hypotheses." 

Noor apparently took notice of Liam's clear confusion (the others were rather better at hiding their feelings. But Liam was in love twice over). "Blood has both iron and salt in it, Majesty. The scholar in Dama Radanae can't quite reconcile how a being that feeds on blood finds two of its components lethal." 

"All the same," Radanae continued doubtfully, "I wouldn't want to be relying on a table knife and a salt-cellar when that thing was hurtling towards me." 

"I wouldn't want to be anywhere near one regardless." Lizzie said firmly. "The full resources of the Swords are investigating, but so far…" 

"Nothing out of the ordinary?" Radanae cut her off. Sometimes, being in the Swords gave Lizzie a slightly different view on what was obvious common knowledge. 

"One could say that. At least it means that the assistance from her Highness will, thankfully, not need to be used." 

"It's a specialist-legion, not a general one," Yevgen corrected his cousin, "and just because we're not facing a full battalion doesn't mean they don't do just as much damage if we just leave them there. There are simply too many hidden gorges and caves out there even for Lieutenant Buran and his scouts." he looked at the K'mir, who smiled at his King with an expression than indicated that this was an issue they'd long discussed. 

"What can I say, Majesty?" Buran said lightly, "We who are here are, of course, happy in your employ. But you'll never get more Clansmen and women joining if you keep being so dreadfully obstinate about off-duty recreation. However, we do look forward to working with the Princess Berenice's experts in this area." 

"You say that this thing…must hide in a cave, and it has many followers?" Liam was trying desperately to impress the objects of his adoration – even though Lizzie was old enough to be his mother, though he was not to know that. 

"Preferably, Majesty," Lizzie nodded. "It cannot bear sunlight as yet, so it must hide in deep caverns away from the heat during the day. Such creatures have, in our tales, always come only from the will of many." 

"So it must be a large cave, or a network of caves!" Liam was saying excitedly, his confidence rising with Lizzie's approval. "We have maps for them, don't we Rasoul?" he turned to his adviser, who was standing just behind his King barely concealing a pained expression. 

"We do, Majesty," he bowed, ignoring his niece's highly amused look. "If you shall excuse me, I shall fetch them from our quarters," with another graceful bow to the others in the room, he left. 

He managed to restrain himself from muttering under his breath about infatuated, impossible, reckless young puppies until he was well down the corridor, out of earshot to those in the conference room.   


_Notes:___

_Biscuit: I believe Americans call them 'cookies'. I imagine that most of the Imperials have very upper-class-British 'Oxbridge' accents, by the way (at least when they're formal), so they use British slang and terms.___

_Legion: A standard Imperial Legion is 10 000 people in total. A 'classic' Legion is made up of 5000 infantry (heavy and light) 2500 cavalry (heavy and light), 1000 archers (longbow, crossbow) 500 'specialists' (scouts, messengers, mages, spies, engineers, cartographers, saboteurs, sappers, chemists, etc), and 1000 support staff (quartermasters, grooms, weapons-repairs, cooks, tailors, vets, medical staff, farriers etc). The precise proportions depend of the nature of the campaign, the surroundings, and the purse of the relevant Empress at the time.___

_A 'specialist' Legion, like the one Yevgen refers to Kay bringing over, consists of 1000, and is composed of crack troops. These may include commandos, terrain specialists among others. Generally, these legions have a higher concentration of knights than the wider military, and a higher proportion of individuals with 'extra-special talents'.___

_Officially, the reason that specialist legions are 1/10 in size is because 1 specialist is meant to be as valuable to a campaign as 10 ordinary soldiers. A cynic would remark that the real reason is that specialist troops are hideously expensive, costing several times as much to recruit, maintain, equip and train as a group of 'classic' soldiers of the same size.___

_Port Sebastia – the Imperials' western-most seaport before Sarain – opens to the Inland Sea. I imagine it looking a bit like Byzantium/Constantinople/Istanbul. Quite near the main Saren port, so I imagine that Lizzie could take a fast ship from the Empire proper to Sarain, commandeer a horse – or rather, several changes of horses (remember that Yevgen imported thoroughbreds for the postal service in 'Queen Kalasin') and get to the Summer Palace far to the north if she hasn't stopped to rest (which she hasn't). Alternatively, she might have 'cheated' – the 'traditional' Delmaran 'special skill' is shape-changing, though, of course, recent generations also have other magics, courtesy of the long line of magically-talented men that the Delmaran princesses and Empresses always seem to chose.___

_General Dama Filesnestrie 'Finn' Kyra – Imperial knight, Duxa Sapra Aude, the Imperial Military's slightly erratic, but brilliant engineering genius, in charge of Weapons Research, Testing, and Development. Imagine 'Q' from the James Bond films, female, and on speed. Of questionable sanity, but no-one would ever dream of mentioning that to her face. Teaches a short section of the Advanced Theoretical Physics subject at the Knights' Academy (the bit no-one understands).___

_Sir Jesal Astenovsky. Imperial knight. Consort of Empress Vanaria. In the future, will be revered as a legendary horse-breeder, especially of thoroughbreds for racing and message-running. However, he was also a famed warrior, strategist, musician, mage and poet, though best-known during his lifetime for his extraordinary good looks. Blond and blue eyed, he looked a little bit like British actor Peter O'Toole (only handsomer). He died in his forties, officially the result of a 'hunting accident', but in reality, took a dagger meant for the Empress during one of their regular 'escapes for sanity's sake' from the Palace. All three of the Empress's children are attributed to him.___

_Empress Vanaria Delmaran. Imperial knight. Previous Empress, mother of Rislyn, Berenice and Yevgen. Died in her late forties/early fifties. Remembered as a competent ruler, fair and just, a diplomat in preference to a warrior, though she had excellent military credentials. Her reign was relatively peaceful, with no major wars or murmurs of succession-challenges, though she was clever enough to make sure that there were no causes for such. Rislyn resembles her to a startling degree physically, and many would say also in the manner of personality and governance. Her relationships with her children varied greatly. An indication may be the manner in which they refer to her. Rislyn calls her 'Mum'. Kay calls her 'Mama' or 'Mother'. Yevgen calls her 'Our Mother' or 'the late Empress Vanaria'.___

_No, I have no idea how Imperials worked out the composition of blood. Perhaps someone was bored one day. This is a fantasy fic. They can also shapeshift, light candles by looking at them, and travel hundreds of miles in a second by drawing a door in the air. Logic doesn't really play a big part in it. Yevgen's very bad pun was deliberate. The biggest hurdle for many young K'mir in joining his service, despite the good pay, excellent conditions, and interesting work, that Buran refers to, is his very tough line on off-duty entertainment that involves cattle-raiding, burning barns, or otherwise annoying lowlanders, i.e. it's not permitted, and punishable by latrine duty and the worst night watches._   
__


	13. The Cygnet

_Note: I'm surprised at how many readers liked Liam's plight! Never mind, there's a girl his own age in this chapter, though whether he has any more success is still undecided. Ballet fans may spot the reference. For others who are still unsure who she is, she was mentioned in the notes in Chapter 11 in her mother's entry._

**Dance of the Cygnet**

"I wish we dared build a Portal here," Azim mused when they returned to the guest quarters after the meeting. "Though we have learned much of import, and there are many in the Eleven Kingdoms who may be able to contribute further on this matter." He shook his head, "But unless and until we know the true extent of the 'special powers' this side of the mountains, it is simply too dangerous to risk. I haven't been able to try so much as a casual probe so far – there's quite a bit of power here, but it's completely unfamiliar to me." The expression on the Adept's face came very close to a pout. "They're hiding a lot from us – no, not about the matter at hand, they're telling us almost, if not all they know about the specific problem that's brought us here – but it's really quite remarkable how little else of interest is getting through. Like the true extent of their powers." 

"King Yevgen managed to burn the thing's heart this morning," Liam offered. "But I know that doesn't say much. I could probably do it…I think…" 

"Just not right here, and not on my heart, please, my King," Rasoul attempted lightness. "But if we sent word to Beldour, Lord Matyas could then send word to Orsal, or Coroth, or Rhemuth. Not so quick as building a Portal ourselves, but better than travelling all the way overland." 

'True enough," Kelson nodded at Rasoul, taking off his thin circlet to rub his fingers at his temples. He had a headache, and it wasn't just the lightning-fast glare that had been shot in his direction by his counterpart. For just the barest fraction of a second, there had been something not…_human_…in that look. Something primal, feral, completely at odds with the image of the over-refined, luxury-loving dilettante they had so far been presented with, though Kelson was astute enough to know it was a complete façade. Under the fine clothes, King Yevgen's muscles were as strong and hard as Kelson's own, hands callused by long practice with sword and spear. A familiarity with death, too, given the calm when the creature had arrived. 

Kelson was getting very tired of being the one discomfited. It was not a feeling he was used to, and most definitely not one he ever desired to be accustomed with.   


The afternoon and evening passed. They met scouts and patrols, who grimly reported no sign of any further creatures. The tension in the Palace compound steadily grew as the light faded, and torches were staked out in the extensive grounds well before twilight, with anxious attendants making sure that there was ample fuel and extra torches around the castle. 

"I had it stocked for seven year siege, but I hadn't intended that we'd need to be quite this enthusiastic about the oil," the three kings, and two Dukes, were sitting in the garden. Duchess Richenda and had expressed an interest in the baby princess, Prince Azim in the library, and Lord Rasoul in apparently discussing family with his niece (who was wandering around with a mug of tea permanently attached to her hand), but more likely comparing knowledge of magics. 

"I had meant to ask that, Majesty," Morgan nodded thanks as one of the silent, efficient servants offered him chilled sherbet. "The torches burn brighter and cleaner than wood alone." 

"The ends are soaked in oil pressed from olives." Yevgen picked up his own drink. "The oil is common in the land of my birth, though less so in these colder climes." 

The conversation was innocuous, trivial, in the face of their unknown adversary, but Kelson found himself easier around the older man – for he had guessed from an aside, that Yevgen was perhaps a year or so his senior, certainly not more, and Kalasin almost exactly his own age. There was nothing more that they could share about the being – or at least, Kelson though wryly, that their counterparts were willing to share, but the time had not been wasted. He had learnt more than he ever really wanted to know about the precise design of mountain forts, a subject he guessed Lord Rasoul would be more interested in, though Morgan nodded polite fascination. The King of Sarain was surprisingly knowledgeable about such things, a confirmation of Kelson's belief that the initial presentation of over-sophisticated potentate was a complete sham. He found himself grudgingly admiring the other's acting skills.   


"She is very beautiful," Richenda offered the compliment as she bent over the baby, genuinely meaning her observation. 

Kalasin reached into the cradle and lifted Lillias out for further inspection. The heir-presumptive stirred restlessly but made no further complaint. 

"Ah, but how fast they grow, Majesty," Richenda smiled as Lillias grabbed her finger with a grip that would have done credit to a blacksmith. "Before long, you will wonder how they were ever this small." 

"So my mother tells me," Kalasin smiled as she indicated that they should sit down in the two comfortable chairs provided in the nursery. Mariella bustled in with a tray of drinks and small cakes, then, sniffing, rearranged the change-table with military precision before retreating. 

Courtesy of cramming every book in their library, and highly compressed lectures from Noor and Radanae (who read anything that stayed still long enough), Kalasin knew by now not only that the Eleven Kingdoms were a good deal more conservative than the Empire, the Eastern Lands, even, and that a 'true' noblewoman rarely strayed from the duties of home, husband and children. Even in Tortall, it was not so unusual, these days, for a noblewoman to have wider interests. She was rapidly realising that the Duchess Richenda, though outwardly fairly typical, was anything but. Radanae had been almost apologetic about the very little true intelligence they had on the Duchess. They knew her birth, her first husband, a traitor, her very hasty second marriage to the Duke of Corwyn, Kelson's most trusted advisor, the names and ages of her children, and that she sat on the Royal Council, highly unusual for a woman for all that her official position there was as her eldest son's regent. Noor had supplied an impressively convoluted and detailed family tree, which lead to Noor herself, but one that she steadfastly refused to draw stating a complete lack of appreciation for abstract art. Kalasin's first reaction to learning of the second marriage was that it had been all-but-ordered by the King of Gwynedd in order to keep a firm hand over her lands, but her introduction to the Duke and Duchess made a mockery of that notion. 

A puzzle, then. One she knew she had to unravel – for the presence of the Duchess here was unusual enough, the journey being so hard. But however unusual the Duchess might be, there was still enough of the 'proper' lady in her to make it more difficult to hold a real conversation in the presence of the men. The female knights might be just a little beyond her comfort zone, so Kally knew that the puzzle of the Duchess was for her to decipher. Grimly, she had shamelessly taken advantage of that. 

"Again, I must compliment you on the magnificence of your Palace," Richenda was saying gracefully, lifting a teacup delicately. Her posture was perfect. She could probably stitch sedately for hours, something Kally could never do (even Yevgen had more patience than her at that particular task – taking care of his own arms included loose threats on his surcoat). 

"Thank you, Richenda," Kalasin used the Duchess's first name, as she had been requested to the night previous, even though she knew that such a familiarity was only offered because of Kally's own nudging in that direction. "We only recently completed this little retreat. I find it more intimate, cosier than our home in the capital. I only wish that we might have met in less unpleasant circumstances," she watched the older woman through her eyelashes as she bent down to Lillias, who was being most unco-operatively calm. 

"It appears that we missed quite a spectacle this morn," Richenda began. 

"Quite. Though I saw more than enough of the creature afterwards to more than satisfy my curiosity," Kalasin added an artistic little shudder. In actual fact, the corpse hadn't bothered her all that much, all things considering. Her medical training had included practical elements as well as the use of her Gift, and that had included both surgery and anatomy. She hadn't been quite game enough to join the grave-robbing expeditions of certain of her fellow healing-students when subjects became scarce, but what she lacked in knowledge of the practical use of a shovel, she made up with a good understanding of the internal workings of the human body all the same. 

Sharing a bed with Yevgen have given her an equally _detailed_ understanding of the externals. She must have blushed at that, for Richenda's next question was. "Have you and his Majesty been married long?" 

"Almost three years now," Kalasin answered, shocking herself that it had been such a long time since they had said their vows in Corus. Shocked at how much had happened since then. How much things had changed. "And yourself, Richenda?" 

"Seven years this spring just past," the Duchess answered easily. She began to say more, but then, a surge of power that both felt surrounded them. It was not blood magic, but felt more like a concentration of power in one place. With one movement, Kalasin moved swiftly to her feet, and handed Lillias to a waiting Mariella, before sweeping out the door, Richenda hard on her heels. As they passed out into the corridor, Richenda was interested to note that the Queen of Sarain stopped at a little bureau and fetched what appeared to be a silk fan with silvered edges.   


"What's that?" Unguarded, Dhugal jumped up in alarm, as a momentary surge of power hit them in the garden. 

"The library," Yevgen said grimly, putting down his glass. "It feels like your Prince Azim is unleashing some lightning bolts in there," he strode quickly towards the Palace itself, "I do hope it's not near the Tol Karde collection…" he muttered, as his guests trailed in his wake.   
  


In the library, the books and papers that Azim had evidently been studying (Yevgen and Kally, of course, didn't keep anything terribly sensitive in the Summer Palace, and what few truly secret documents were in the Palace were either in their private quarters or in Radanae's) were scattered across the floor. 

Across the floor, too, was an impressive array of trunks, book-buckets and arcane equipment. But that was not what drew their eyes. 

The Deryni Adept was at the far end of the room, between two bookshelves, looking badly shaken, and evidently pinned against the wall by a ferocious half-grown cygnet, which was flapping its wings and trying to bite him. 

Yevgen narrowed his eyes. "Odette…" the name was a disapproving growl as the adolescent swan turned in their direction, and seemed to give a rebellious stare, before shimmering in the air. 

There were six jaws on the ground as the shimmering blue cloud resolved itself into a lanky, dark-haired, dark-eyed girl in her early teens, with the unmistakable air of a fine-bred thoroughbred filly, all arms, legs, and the promise of spectacular beauty. 

"Just _what _do you think you're doing here?" Yevgen crossed the floor to glare at the girl. She was tall, five feet seven inches, and definitely had quite a few more inches to go. 

She held out a sealed message-tube to him, looking at him in a challenging way as he broke it open and scanned the rolled vellum inside. 

Kalasin and Richenda appeared at the door. Yevgen looked up at the noise. "Oh, I apologise," he said absently. "My lady, Your Majesties, Your Highness," he nodded Azim, who was gamely trying to regain his dignity. It's not every day a full Deryni Adept and Prince is cornered by a teenage avian. "Your Graces, Your Lordship, might I present the Knight-Cadet Odette Delmaran. This _still_ doesn't explain anything," the last was said to the girl, as he gesticulated with the letter that held a variation of the private seal of the Imperial family (as opposed to the Delmaran family. Imperial heraldry is complicated. Email for the full explanation). "If I remember correctly, the semester isn't even over yet." 

She tossed her head. The effect was spoiled by the fact that her hair was cropped short, barely more than a dark cap on her head. It suited her, though. "Nothing _ever_ happens after the exams in the last few weeks," she complained, her voice a clear mezzo-soprano. "Anyway, there was nobody else they could trust who had enough power to get this far." 

"And just what am I supposed to do with you for the next few weeks before you can recharge, hmm?" he raised an eyebrow. "You're thirteen, Odette. That's three years too young at least for even an observer post. Aunt would _crucify_ me if you went even remotely near anything." 

"I'm nearly fourteen!"she exploded, flushing red, and glaring at him. "And Mum was the one who said I could come. I haven't seen or heard from you in years and years." The last was said somewhat petulantly. 

"Thirteen," he repeated coolly. "I came and gave a lecture on designing mountain fortifications to take advantage of local conditions the winter before last, which you attended, and Kay and I sent you a new horse on your last birthday." 

"All right," she conceded sullenly. "But Ris said that you might need some more help, and I was the only one around she knew she could trust and who could get here and not fall flat on my face when I arrived." 

"Oh hello, Odette," Radanae wandered in, looking remarkably unsurprised, with several sheets of paper in her hand, and a stack of books under her arm. She moved past the stunned visitors, to shove the paper into Odette's hand. "Your essay." She said helpfully. "I've made a few corrections. They're mainly name and date mistakes, though you have used concepts in your analysis that, while very interesting, aren't really relevant to the countries in question. Monotheism is a concept from countries further north than the ones we discussed." She added helpfully. 

Odette scowled at the essay, which had 'B', 'Great Effort', and a lot of red ink on it. 

"However," Radanae plowed on, her cheerful tones somehow completely inappropriate in the room. "I heard your cousin wondering what we should do with you during your stay here with us. Now, I'm sure that your arms practice will go on as usual, but you will be missing some academic lessons. So," she dumped the books she was carrying into the stunned Odette's arms. "You've chosen to get Comparative Theology out of the way by doing it next year, haven't you?" she asked. 

Odette nodded. She'd spent too long in the Knights' Academy to be surprised at what any teacher knew. It was a constant game, between the faculty and the cadets, and one which produced a large number of very talented agents for the Service. 

"Good. You can get your major essay out of the way here. Now, these are some of the holy writings of the Sar'keit, the Lyilrin and the Christians. 4000 words, compare and contrast the concept of justice between the faiths. Alternatively, track and explore the development of universal rules and principles in each from the earlier until the later works. Two weeks for your first draft." 

Odette stared in disbelief. This was not at all what she had expected when she had been caught 'overhearing' a 'private' conference in the Imperial family's apartments. She'd had the afternoon off, and had been going to fetch a book she'd wanted to re-read (there was very little storage space in her room at the Academy, so she kept most of her less-treasured things in room in her mother's apartment in the Palace proper) when she had overheard a very interesting discussion. Interesting enough that she found herself 'volunteered' to take some new information (in a disappointingly sealed tube) to her cousin far in the west. 

"She got top marks in our year for it, 'detté," Yevgen was smiling evilly at his young cousin, seemingly regaining his composure. "Or would you prefer me to set you some mathematics problems? Have you done implicit differentiation yet? Or integration by parts?" 

"Vectors in three dimensions," Radanae suggested helpfully. "Or the binomial theorem." She was good at mathematics (the way she was good at all her other subjects) but those two had taken more work that she was comfortable with (½ an hour of cramming before the final exam). "But you're probably tired from your journey here. Lizzie's just come." 

"It's a regular family reunion," Yevgen observed dryly. 

Radanae ignored him, "she's just usurped your housekeeper, I'm afraid, Kalasin," it was an almost-apology to the Queen, "and you need some rest. Go," she shooed the younger girl out the door and into the arms of the other beautiful Delmaran cousin with almost unseemly haste, slamming the door behind them. 

"Well, now we know who's been missing for the last few months" Yevgen unfolded the second letter that had been concealed with the one from his Aunt Giselle asking him to 'be so kind as to let Odette stay for a few weeks so she can learn more about the world'. "Nobody in the inner circle. In fact," he crossed the floor to begin picking up the scattered papers, "nobody very important at all. Not even their knightly families missed them until they were asked." 

"Noble families?" Liam, having caught another glimpse of Lizzie, was still staring at the shut door. 

"Technically, not by Imperial law, though their families are. " Yevgen glanced over at his northern neighbour, and only barely stopped a smile. "The main theme is that they were all thrown out of the Academy for drug use. _Merasha_, specifically." 

"_Merasha_?" Prince Azim's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. 

"Recreational drug," Yevgen uncharacteristically misinterpreted the surprise. "Not so popular as opium or cocaine, but a concern none the less. A painkiller in small doses, so not actually illegal. I'm told large doses make one see pink elephants and such." 

Liam's "What's an elephant?" was muffled. 

"How did they come up with that?" Kalasin asked, curious. Even the famously perceptive Imperial Intelligence Service would have to have searched very hard to come up with such a conclusion. 

"Tabulation of those who have travelled into Sarain, and not be recorded as returned or settled here, those with the means to journey independently, those with a history of involvement in the occult. It's not illegal, but we consider it prudent to record names. Those who had records of enjoying the practical side of knightly training just a little bit too much…" Yevgen listed possible points of interest. 

"The filing system is very organised," Radanae explained, shrugging. "It would take a little time to find all this, but it would be found. They worked very fast for this." 

"None of the major families, though," Yevgen was re-reading the list. By now, they had crossed to the library table, and the letter was spread out. "That's interesting…" he trailed off… "all are from southern or eastern families, none from north or west." 

"No," Radanae paused, then darted a look at their visitors before continuing. "Too much Deryni influence in the north and the west for _Merasha_." She added quietly. She met their gazes. "Quite a lot fled over the mountains in Torenth and Orsal into the Empire two hundred years ago, or made their way through the Forcinn and R'Kassi. We value …shall we call them 'special powers'?…and such talents, and many found themselves in our knightly families, mostly in the north and west." She shook her head. Azim looked enthralled. Kelson remembered the Preceptor speaking of suspected Michaeline knights escaping into the Empire. Now, confirmation that some of their brothers had escaped the massacres two hundred years ago. Even if they had apparently abandoned their vows of celibacy. 

"It was a while before the problems came out, though," she continued. 

"Problems?" it was Kalasin this time 

Radanae sighed. "Yevgen, do you remember my paternal grandfather's reaction to _Merasha_?" 

"Wasn't he allergic to it?" Yevgen was puzzled. 

"That's what we'd like people to think." She tilted her head. "In case you've forgotten, his family's north-western. There's quite a bit of Deryni blood in them, though thankfully it didn't pass into us. Rory's got the name, but little else, thankfully." 

"Pardon?" Kelson had been surprised enough to hear his cousin's name used for another young man earlier that day, but in relation to this? 

"A corruption of the surname 'MacRorie', apparently a family of some note in Gwynedd some two hundred years ago," Radanae explained, "it's fairly popular as far as names go among those families who decided to incorporate Deryni blood." 

"Thankfully?" Morgan rumbled. While sometimes being considered a half-bred Deryni was inconvenient, he still wasn't easy about such a slip of a girl being thankful that she wasn't one while her family evidently, somewhere in its past, honoured St. Camber. Kelson was too busy digesting the possible origins of his cousin's name. 

"Your Grace, in the circumstances, I must be most disgracefully blunt. Deryni abilities aren't really all that remarkable here. Very useful and valued, of course, but the disadvantages – the sensitivity to others' emotions, the vulnerability to _Merasha_, among others – don't quite make up for them. There are other special abilities that have more advantages without the disadvantages. But," she gave a little shrug, "a century or two ago, my ancestors thought it might be useful to have some fresh blood and new ability in the family – and all we manage to do is light candles and have a most inconvenient reaction to a common painkiller. Luckily, though, the Gavrillian Gift is dominant," she turned back to the list. "It does make sense, of a sort." She pursed her lips, but shook her head. "But I fail to see how much of a difference it would make. We, none of us, would know any of them by sight…and we all know what their fates must be if they have indeed fallen into the service of a blood wraith, regardless of parentage." 

"Indeed." Yevgen was just as close-mouthed. 

"You mean we'll have to kill them?" Liam gasped. 

A raised eyebrow. "Of course," Radanae said quietly. "Or their master will rise again through them – only worse, for now they will have a physical body, and not confined to the early limitations of its natural form, though that they may assume when they chose. The whole concept's a bit illogical, but then again, consistency never does seem to be particularly important in these situations." Her lips pursed. "Now what I'd like to go is who was behind this. None of them would have exerted the effort to find texts on this subject, or understood it if they found it." She shook her head in an irritated manner. 

"So there are texts on this?" Duchess Richenda said into the silence. 

"Sooner or later, someone will write about _anything_, just to get published." Yevgen explained, as he seemed to be tracing routes upon a huge map of the Empire, the Eastern Lands, the Eleven Kingdoms and Cathak that was spread on the table. "Besides, comparatively speaking, it hasn't been all that long since old blood magic was banned. A few centuries," he held up a hand to the shocked gasps of their visitors. "The University is several times older than that. For a while in the 12th century, it was actually quite widespread in all the more popular religions." 

"It _is_ the twelfth century," Liam's eyebrows made a 'V' in the forehead in confusion. 

"Different calendar," Yevgen said. "Months, and days, I think, are the same, but for us, it's 2819. But, schematics, it's today we're worried about." 

"Do you have access to such texts?" Kelson asked. 

"We've just been giving you a summary of them. The originals are scattered around the archives of the Imperial University, the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the War College, but they're too fragile to be moved, and there hasn't been significant interest in them in the last hundred years for anyone to bother publishing them on the major scale. Unless you count "The Idiot's Guide to Necromancy" which came out in the 'Humour' section last year…" Radanae mused. "Best-seller too. It got to number three on the Bersone Times Book list." 

"The Idiot's Guide to Necromancy," Dhugal repeated in disbelief. 

"It _did_ dedicate the entire introduction to the proper use of a shovel," Radanae said, by way of explanation. She made a face. "That's the problem with universal literacy – the publishing trade just goes to the lowest common denominator." 

"I don't see you complaining about it." Yevgen retorted, getting a set of callipers out from a drawer under the desk to more accurately calculate the distances. 

"How is your education program, going, by the way?" Radanae crossed her arms and leant on the table. 

"Marvellously," Kalasin sought to intervene before they started to seriously squabble in front of their guests. Radanae and Yevgen had known each other since babyhood, and their fights, while never truly meant, were pretty much instinctive, a carry-over from their schooldays. "The winter schools for everyone are well and truly established, the villages have primary schools, the towns and cities secondary – and we hope to get enrolments in the University up to the thousands within the next few years. But enough digression, we should get back to this." 

"A pass here – from lands belonging to the Orestei family," Yevgen had pinpointed an area in Greater Sarain, beyond the Roof, in lands that he and Kalasin controlled. "Not difficult to sneak in from there, and there's a highway not too far south. Jyrilan Orestei's been missing for half a year. In any other circumstances I'd say good riddance – evidently his family has too – but he's a distinct possibility." 

"I thought your Majesty said that none of these missing persons came from the north-west." Morgan came closer to the table, admiring the finely detailed map. 

"Oresteis aren't from the north-west, they're land speculators," Yevgen answered, "they bought up significant tracts of land when those provinces were annexed because my great-grandmother wanted to update Port Sebastia." He returned to the huge map. 

They continued discussing the new information for some time, poring over the map, examining the new documents and texts that had appeared in the library, everyone contributing with what they knew of conditions, of magic, of likely tactics. Before long, though, a rather upset-looking butler found them all, and informed them that dinner could not possibly wait any longer. Since the discussion was pretty much exhausted, they decided to go to the dining hall. 

The meal was magnificent.   
  
  


"They certainly have Portals, or something like them," dinner had taken a little off the edge of Azim's shock, but the Prince was still visibly shaken. 

"What happened?" Richenda pushed a cup of tea into her teacher's hand. They were back in the guest wing. 

"I was reading – then – I don't know how to describe it – a circle just opened up in mid-air, and trunks and book-baskets were being thrown through it. Then – a cygnet barrelled through the circle, just before it spiralled shut, and hit me." He shook his head ruefully. "I don't know who was the more shocked, but after that, I found myself backed into the corner, and that was when you came in." 

"Who do you think she was?" Dhugal hadn't said very much all evening. 

"A cousin, presumably," Rasoul, who had joined them somewhat after the extraordinary events, but before dinner. "Delmaran's the name of the Imperial family – it's the King's surname, and that of the blonde woman who arrived today – and we haven't any reports of younger sisters." 

"That doesn't say much, though," Kelson reminded him. "We don't have very many reports of them at all. Certainly not as many as they seem to have on us." He paused. "Do you think it's true, though? That they've Deryni among them." 

"It sounds like they _had_." Azim corrected. "You heard the Ambassador. It seems that since magic is so highly regarded this side of the mountains, many of our brethren did abandon their vows – though if what we have seen of the ladies here, I can certainly understand –" 

Richenda, uncharacteristically, gave a rather disgusted little sniff. 

"…err…yes," Azim flicked a glance over at his former student, "and so Deryni blood found its way even into the noble families. And, just as apparently, is finding its way out." 

"_Merasha _as a painkiller?" Duncan was still sceptical about the concept. 

"Evidently so." Azim sighed. "I only wish we had the time to speak more of inconsequential subjects. There is much I saw in the library that intrigued me. So much knowledge – and so casually placed. I doubt there's a single house in the whole of the Eleven Kingdoms with so wonderful a collection." 

"And Queen Kalasin calls this place a 'little retreat'. I wonder what the library in the capital is like." Richenda was openly speculating.   
  
  


"How did you know Odette was going to be here?" after the guests had left, the King and Queen of Sarain relaxed with their adult Imperial guests. Odette had been rather unceremoniously sent to bed after dinner – which she spent being sullen because King Liam had preferred to stare at Lizzie rather than respond to her tentative conversation openings. Odette was not used to being ignored, and didn't like it one bit. 

"I didn't," Radanae shrugged. "We had a spare half an hour, so I was going to return some books to your library – it is a rather nice one, by the way – finish marking the essays I set my class at the Academy, and interrogate Prince Azim." 

"All that in half an hour?" 

"I can multi-task. At any rate, I was outside, heard you talking, and came inside. Luckily I had just finished marking hers." 

"The essay topic? It sounded awful," Kalasin laughed at it. 

"We needed to shut her up," Radanae shrugged easily, "I've found that to be the most effective way for teenagers. I've just spent 6 weeks teaching them. That reminds me, Lizzie, can you have a talk to her about our guests and their prejudices? I'm afraid that she's taken my lectures somewhat too much to heart and thinks that everyone west of the Roof is alike." 

"I will," the older woman promised. "Nice wine." She complimented Kalasin as she took a sip. "You weren't serious about the maths problems, were you?" she asked her cousin. 

"If she continues to behave like a brat I'll make her do trigonomic differential equations without the tables. I don't think I even have them here anyway." 

"Just because _you_ could do them in your head," Noor muttered sourly, pouring herself some more iced chocolate. 

"How many cousins are there?" Kalasin asked, with a most disapproving glance at her husband. 

"Not many. We're all pretty quiet." Lizzie answered. "I've got two sisters, and they have daughters, and Giselle has a younger sister. There are a few more in the next remove, but that's about it." 

"All girls?" Kalasin was curious about his husband's family – apart from his sisters, who wrote regularly, he didn't talk about them. 

"Except for him," Lizzie pointed a finger at said husband, who returned the look with equanimity. "We're scattered all around the Empire, though, so I don't think you met all of us when you were at Ris's coronation the winter before last. Odette's pretty typical, as far as looks go. Kay, the mathematical genius there and I are pretty much the freaks." 

"Except for Aunt Giselle," Yevgen muttered. 

"I meant _physically_," Lizzie snapped, then softened. "So it's out there." 

"Yes." 

"I _hate_ just sitting around not doing anything," she growled, coming to her feet. "We have as much equipment as we're ever going to have, and we can't do a blasted thing because we don't have the manpower." 

"It's hardly my fault," Yevgen protested. 

"I know. It's just…oh I can't wait till Kay gets here. Any chance of cheating?" she looked around hopefully. 

"Afraid not." Radanae tilted her head. "Two Gates in such a short time probably cleaned out half the faculty. Even if Kay cheats, there's nine hundred-odd in her Legion who can't. And the nine-hundred odd a rather important in this little enterprise." 

"I suppose so." Lizzie sat down again, then grinned. "Kalasin, might I ask if that little boy – King Liam – has been staring at people like that since he arrived?" 

"Well – you and me," Kalasin had to admit. "I think it's rather sweet." 

"It _is_, isn't it?" Lizzie laughed. "I must admit, it's the first time someone less than half my age has had a crush on me. It's done _wonders_ for my ego." 

Yevgen muttered something that ought not to be repeated regarding her ego. 

She ignored him. "The others?" 

"Oh, no you don't Lizzie," Yevgen knew where this was headed, even though Lizzie was fastidious with her partners, she still enjoyed a challenge as much as the next woman. "Lord Rasoul has some of your usual patriarchal-conservative issues with women, and Prince Azim and Bishop Duncan are members of religious orders with celibacy vows," he spoke quickly. 

"Pity," Lizzie inspected a fingernail. "The blond one is married, too, worst of luck, and I'm not quite ready to go cradle-raiding yet. Damn." Then she smiled. "I might as well give the little one to Odette. She'll eat him alive. Kill two birds with one stone." 

"I had hoped that Ris and Aunt weren't thinking like that," Yevgen winced. "She's a bit young for that, isn't she?" 

"Not by their standards," Lizzie was dismissive. "Kelson's first wife was fourteen when they married. It's not as if we're suggesting that Odette does that." 

"What, then?" Kalasin as confused. This was the first time she had heard of the Empire stooping to such tactics. 

"Just an infatuation. She's old enough for that." Radanae picked up the decanter of chocolate. "Giselle gets Odette out to see the world before she gets an inflated sense of her own importance, and a first love is always a very handy distracter from one's own magnificence. If Liam returned any such sentiment…well," she shrugged delicately, "he delays his other movements towards matrimony – especially when we tell him eighteen is the minimum age…" 

"…without saying that princesses don't marry," Kalasin was starting to understand. 

Radanae nodded approval. "So we have more time to study him before he starts getting his own heirs and being a rival for Kelson – who we know something more about. Of course, it would also mean he trots down here a lot more, Yevgen." She said in an apologetic tone. 

"I don't mind. He's a better neighbour than Barnesh was. Amusing too." Then he rose from his seat and stretched. "I'm for bed. Coming, Kally?" he held out his arm. 

Kalasin was well aware that Imperials weren't at all embarrassed about sex, but she couldn't quite hold back a blush as she stood and they left the dining room, much to the amusement of the three women who remained.   


_Notes: While the Empire is diverse, Bersone, and the 'heartlands' have a largely temperate climate, basically sunny Mediterranean, but with comparatively short, bitterly cold winters. Generally the year consists of 5 months of warm weather, 1 of extremely hot, 1 of extremely cold, 2 of coolish and 3 where it can't make up its mind.___

_Merasha, for those who haven't read the Katherine Kurtz novels, is a drug that incapacitates Deryni. It was used by the clergy to test if priests who were about to be ordained were Deryni (Deryni couldn't enter the church, own land, or do quite a lot of things).___

_Michaeline knights were part of a militant religious order of Priest-knights, sort of a cross between the Templars and the Jesuits. I don't know much about them because I haven't read the six books they're more prominent in. By Kelson's time, they've been disbanded for about two hundred years. Prince Azim's order of the Knights of the Anvil traces its roots to the Michaeline knights. Presumably, the order wouldn't have settled well into the Empire – religious tolerance stops at having armed clergy who might get a bit over-enthusiastic about conversions. I imagine, since they were comparatively few in number, they simply would have faded quietly into the population, some of them catching the interest of the local girls and women, the more handsome, open-minded and Deryni-talented finding their way into the knightly Houses.___

_Good looks run in the Delmaran family, like brains and magic – so yes, it's not just chance that all the ones who have bounded in tend to be pretty, intelligent and able to light candles by looking at them. Empresses and Princesses pretty much have their pick of men, and the women who survive to get their titles are neither unobservant nor stupid. Marriage for politics alone is rare (though it's frequently a consideration) as the disadvantages (vis a vis gene quality) usually outweighs any advantages. Hence, most of the paternal input in the Delmarans has been handsome, smart, magical, and good-natured (the good nature never seems to get passed down, but ¾'s not too bad).___

_Yes, that is a shukusen that Kally grabbed. One presumes that Shinko taught her how to use it._   
__


	14. Surprises

_Note: Opps! Big mistake in the preceding part. Odette has a younger sister, named Angharad (called 'Harry'), who is 11. Giselle is Vanaria's younger sister, and they were the only surviving children of Empress Berenice VI (a middle daughter, Morigiana, fell off a cliff abseiling at the age of 13, and died of multiple injuries)._

Surprises 

The next day dawned bright and cool, but was rather refreshingly uneventful, as far as patrols returning with living corpses were concerned. 

Liam-Lajos, King of Torenth rose early, as was his habit, one highly unusual to teenagers in any world, but one he determinedly kept, as those few minutes at the very beginning of day were the only ones he could truly call his own. He was far more mature than most, even his closest associates, and especially his relatives, believed. That is, if one disregarded his occasional relapses into adolescent rapture when introduced to rather physically spectacular members of the opposite sex. 

He called for neither valet nor squire to assist him, dressing quickly and then leaving his room. Lord Rasoul would be at his dawn prayers in the garden, so Liam quietly left the guest wing from another door, leading to the practice court where he had seen the creature the day before. 

There were others there, as there had been the previous morning, but most appeared to give him little attention, save a keen glance now and then, to keep him in their sights. Liam leaned against a low barrier, deep in thought. There was no doubt that this was a serious threat to his kingdom, but, much as it displeased him, there was nothing to do just yet but wait. He was not so sure even of his own army to feel completely comfortable sending them into the mountains to hunt down the creatures, knowing that the news would inevitably flood into the lowlands and send panic all through Torenth. He was in the uncomfortable position of being forced to trust his southern neighbour completely in the matter, even knowing that the said neighbour had already just as subtly already encroached upon his territory. He _liked_ Yevgen – well, as much as he liked any other monarch. The other man treated him as an equal, which, if he thought about it honestly, not even Kelson did. He knew that was perfectly understandable – he had been barely ten when he had arrived in Kelson's court, and not only had Kelson seen him grow up, he was also Liam's former overlord – not something that would fade in even the passing of a year. But it was foolish to think, no matter how much Liam thought that Yevgen was the model of a King that he should follow, that his neighbour would think of Liam's own interests before his own. True enough, this creature was on both their lands, but Yevgen need not even have contacted them – they could have attempted to deal with it themselves – they certainly had more information on the creatures than Liam's people did, and more detailed maps. 

He sighed. There was a very complicated game going on, and he wasn't even sure if anyone had ever bothered to hand him a copy of the rules. 

"Excuse me, can I get past, please?" the voice was young, female, and most put out. 

Liam snapped out of his reverie and turned around to see the girl who had so unexpectedly arrived the day before. He stared, not because he was affronted at the lack of formality, but rather at her lack of clothing. 

Odette was wearing plain, close fitting breeches, polished riding boots, arm guards, and what Liam could only describe as a short, boned, vest which was shaped, padded and stiffened in some very interesting places, leaving her midriff free. She had a very nice midriff, he noticed, tastefully ornamented with fanciful designs in henna. 

"Ahem," she cleared her throat significantly. She was holding an unstrung bow and practice sword in one hand, and had a towel draped over the other. 

Liam, aware that he was staring, straightened up to look at her face, and bowed slightly, "Good morning, Highness," 

She looked, if anything, confused. "I'm not a princess, Majesty," she told him. "It's just 'Odette'." 

"Oh. Apologies…ah…" 

"Odette." She repeated firmly. "Excuse me?" she glanced towards the practice court. "My cousin promised me that he'd look at my fencing and archery this morning. I've got to warm up." 

He stepped aside quickly, but found himself following her onto the courts, where she wandered into an unoccupied archery yard and began to set up. 

"How are you related to his Majesty?" Liam found himself cursing his lack of familiarity with girls his age. While he was reasonably conversant with courtly manners, he somehow doubted that observations on the weather were appropriate when said lady was stringing a bow almost as tall as she was. 

"Yevgen?" Bow strung, Odette selected arrows from a rack of quivers placed at the edge of the yard. "My mother is the younger sister of his mother. Yelizabeta's mother was our grandmother's younger sister." She added. 

Drawing her bow, she negligently aimed, and both of them watched as the arrow sailed easily into the inner circle of the target. She shook out her arm. "Too early," she groaned. "I hate these," she said with a rueful smile, putting bow down and embarking on a quick series of arm exercises, some of which Liam would previously have thought impossible. 

She visibly made an effort towards conversation. "How do you like the summer retreat, Majesty?" she asked. 

"If I'm to call you Odette, Lady, I hope that you will likewise to me the honour of my given name," 

She looked mildly impressed, "I am flattered, Liam-Lajos Lionel Laszlo Furstan d'Arjenol, that you would think so well of me." 

"Liam, please," he smiled to hide his surprise that she knew all his names. "I find it a very beautiful place, set in a most picturesque valley. Is this your first time here?" 

She nodded. "I haven't seen my cousin for a year and a half, but he showed me some of his sketches for the frescos when he visited us in Bersone." 

"Ah, the Imperial capital," Liam was suddenly thankful for the hours spent in the library in Beldour. There was little knowledge of the Empire is Gwynedd, though luckily, Torenth and Arjenol had traded with their eastern neighbours long enough to gather information about them. "Is it really as magnificent as the stories say?" 

"Well, I can't say, as I don't know which stories you're referring to," all thought of archery seemed to have been forgotten as Odette leaned on the other side of the fence. "It's large, of course – there's more than two million people officially there at any one time, though I think it's a lot more than that. I spend most of my time at the Knights' Academy a few miles to the south of the city, though." 

Liam gathered it was his time to offer something to the conversation. "Ah…are you enjoying your training?" 

"As much as any might expect," she said negligently, "it's necessary, after all." She spun the bow around in her hand. 

Liam took the opportunity to ask about someone else he was curious about. "Might I ask how the Princess Berenice is then related? I understand that she is to join us, if I heard your cousin correctly." 

"Kay? Oh yes, of course. She's Yevgen's twin sister," Odette said casually. "She looks a lot like Yevgen – and a little bit like Lizzie. She's _very_ beautiful," the last statement was said with just a slight hint. 

It completely flew past Liam. 

Odette moved off and began to resume her practice, hiding an injured little sniff that he didn't seem to understand how to play the game. He wasn't nearly so much fun as her male counterparts back the Academy, she decided. 

The exercises had made a difference, Liam observed, as he watched arrow after arrow slam into the centre of the target, half again the distance that he usually practised at. She was very good. 

"Good," the voice at his shoulder echoed Liam, and the young King jumped, only to see that it was his neighbour there. "Better than I thought you'd be, Odette. Can you collect the arrows and show me what you're like on your other side?" 

To Liam's amazement, she was equally good using the bow left-handed. While he himself preferred his right hand, he knew that left-handedness was not tolerated among the knights in any of the Eleven Kingdoms, and those so unfortunate to be, as the sons of the border lords called it 'cack-handed', suffered greatly in their training. However, the Imperials seemed to have no such prejudices, as he dared a glance up (Yevgen was several inches taller than he – Liam himself was about the same height as Odette) at the older man, who was watching his young cousin with a very different keen gaze than Liam was. 

They were joined, at length, by Lord Dhugal, yawning. Evidently, he had taken note of how many women were present in the military fortress and decided to forgo sleep. To no avail, it seemed. Liam had caught sight of him scant minutes before, in conversation with two young women in practice clothing. One had been a K'mir of the mountains, one of a race Liam had never seen before, with skin of burnished copper and bleached blond hair. They had evidently not found the Duke of Cassan to their taste, for, after the briefest of exchanges, they moved off, both with a distinctly contemptuous step. Dhugal, then, saw no choice but to join the two kings at the archery yard. He, too, drew up short at the sight of another left-handed archer (he was the only knight who was determinedly left-handed in Gwynedd, despite the best efforts of Prince Nigel when Dhugal had briefly trained in Rhemuth). 

"You need a tad more practice on the left," Yevgen told his young cousin, at length. "You're still not getting quite the force you should be. That should be enough for today." He was looking down at a sheet of paper in his hand. 

"What's that?" Odette asked, wiping her hands on her towel and carefully unstringing the bow. 

"Your report. Your mother sent it with the letter. You know how she likes to do things." He frowned. "You really should pay more attention in physics, you know. It's very useful later…and what's this 'C' in music composition…"   
  


There were no more reports of emptied villages that day. Liam wasn't sure if he should be happy that no more of his people had died, or stunned at the revelation that there simply weren't enough of his people in the high mountains to make it worth the creature's while. 

However, there was one event that day, even before the arrival of the Princess Berenice, that was remarkable. A welcome arrival, too, but the news he brought was much less so.   
  
  


"Uncle! What do you do here?" Liam leapt up from the table where they had been discussing possible strategies to search the caves and caverns in the highlands. The difficulty was that only one of the creatures, left alive, might possibly summon the wraith once more, if it was banished. For among the useless notes and equipment that had been so hastily forwarded to the Empire's western-most province, was, at least, a hope that the wraith could be sent to the figuratively netherworld where it belonged. It was a comparatively simple incantation – simpler, in fact, even than setting up Deryni Wards. The problem, of course, was that it had to be done close to the creature – within 'seven strides', to quote an (Imperial) fourteenth-century crumbling pile of dust. Of course, they weren't helpful enough to say whose strides they were, though the Imperial Ambassador, rather pessimistically remarked that fourteenth century people were a good deal smaller than their modern counterparts. 

Lord Matyas Furstan-Komnene, who had found himself Duke of Arjenol after the death of two older brothers and the 'disappearance' of another (Radanae would have made some witty quip about the carelessness of losing three, had she not read the speculations of the Service regarding the 'missing' Teymuranz – who had tried to kill his nephew the year previous), was dusty and exhausted after his hard journey from Beldour. He took the iced cider offered to him with grateful thanks, and sat at the table, as introductions were quickly and informally performed. His county of Komnene lay on the trade-route between Sarain and Torenth, so he could not but be aware of the changes to his south. He had accompanied Liam when he and Yevgen had met the previous winter. He had a son almost precisely Lillias's age, and one three years older. A few ideas had occurred to Kalasin when she had realised just how many young boys of Lillias age had been born to the high nobility of the Eleven Kingdoms, and she had been so horrified at the direction that her thoughts had taken she went down to the practice yards straight away for some archery practice to take her mind off it. 

"I came myself, for there was no messenger I could both trust with the message and one I was sure of getting past these mountains," he nodded at the attending Busan, who bowed graciously back. The K'mir were notorious followers of the school of 'shoot first, ask questions later' patrolling, a definite disadvantage given their legendary skills at archery. "Before you take me to task, I have arranged things suitably in Beldour. The Council has decided to take its summer recess early, though you will not be pleased at the number of proposals awaiting your consideration when you return. No, my nephew, there is something of grave importance. We have again found trace of my brother," he cast a glance around the table, but seemed not at all surprised as he caught Radanae's look of comprehension. "He has been sighted in these mountains – and my sources, which are impeccable, have just now confirmed that there have been several – dating back to last autumn, before the snows fell." 

Silence. 

"So it is not only the drugged scions of our Houses," Radanae mused, "but seemingly an alliance across the mountains. This makes the…original instigator…of this all the more dangerous, if they can gather power from this many lands." 

"So I have gathered, Lady," Matyas inclined his head in her direction. "It is more than simply the acts of a random madman – though that would be bad enough – but one evidently with a keen understanding of the politics of this part of the world." 

There was a commotion in the yard, just as a butler entered to respectfully inform their Majesties of Sarain that the Princess Berenice and her troops had arrived earlier than expected. They were setting up camp in the large, enclosed grassy area behind the Palace itself, intended for large gatherings of the mountain folk. Yevgen nodded as he rose, offering Matyas accommodation with the others from the Eleven Kingdoms, one that the Duke accepted graciously.   


It had been a year and a half since Kalasin had seen her sister-in-law, and even she was struck by how much had changed – not physically, for Kay was as she had always been, tall, lithe, with a face that could have come off a marble statute of a by-gone heroine. It was something less obvious – there was an air of command that was stronger, a confidence that was more assured, a maturity that came so quickly in even a year. Dhugal seemed to change his affections once more, though, curiously enough, Liam showed awe, but not worship. Behind her, scurrying on the large expanse of ground where tents were being erected with a superhuman speed, were her assorted mountain troops, hard-headed, efficient soldiers, brought here to search for the physical evidence. 

"We did catch a glimpse of another party approaching from the west as we were at the peak," Kay said, after introductions had been performed. "We think that the Tortallans are moving much faster than we expected, though Master Numair might have had something to do with that." 

"Are you sure?" Kalasin was sceptical, given the distances. 

"Yes. Tortallan flags, and all major members of the party identified," the unexpected comment came from a small, intelligent looking young woman of about twenty, carrying a scribe's satchel, all but unnoticed in the shadow of the Imperial Princess. 

"Oh, forgive me. This is Rose, my new secretary," Kay waved a manicured hand in the general direction of her assistant, with the air that most people tended to overlook Rose, and it was something they were all used to. "Thanks, Rose, could you go over and supervise the unpacking of the document-cases? They're tiresome, I know, but it's even more irritating when they go missing. 'Danae, can you go with her? We've brought something for you." 

Curious, the Ambassador would have moved off, even if rank did not dictate that she had to obey the Imperial Heir. She followed the shorter woman, their heads together as though discussing something. Through the influence of Radanae's mother, the formidable Teleri Gavrillian, Commander-General of the Northern Armies, in sending the items to Kay's northern base before their departure, they had brought her favourite destrier, the cream mare Luana, and the rest of her armoury.   
  


Dinner, that evening, took place indoors, their numbers augmented by Duke Matyas and Princess Berenice, while Odette had evidently been excluded, much to Liam's disappointment. It was somewhat of a novelty not to be the youngest, for once. There was a strange mood over the company, on one hand grateful for the arrival of sufficient crack troops to search all the mountain range, and yet disturbed by the possibility that the incidents were more than simply a magical problem. 

Just after desert, the sound of running outside in the corridor, distracted them from their conversation, and the door to the dining room flew open to admit yet another stunningly beautiful woman (the continued impact was definitely starting to wear off a bit) in military uniform with the white belt of a knight.   
  
"Apologies, Excellencies," she barely stopped to nod, "pardon, dama, we need you at the camp," this was addressed towards Kay, "there's been an…_incident_…" she was already rushing back out the door, as Kay hurriedly stood up and followed her aide. 

For it was no ordinary female knight – if there was such a thing – the woman was, indeed, one of her seconds, Dama Felara Eriel, who Kalasin knew mainly as her husband's former lover. 

Not that she had so much as flicked an eyelash in Yevgen's direction. She had been nowhere in sight earlier in the afternoon, though Berenice's other second, the massive Justinia Ferox, was conspicuous – though, admittedly, the six-foot-four-inch knight was a little hard to miss. 

Such desperation was unusual, and the members of the dining party found themselves trailing along behind the two female knights as they sprinted through the Palace and out towards the camp ground. 

Towards the far end of the large expanse of grass, a small crowd had already gathered, though they parted to let the newcomers pass. Dama Justinia Ferox and a man and woman who both wore what Kally knew as the uniform of medical personnel knelt beside the writhing form of a soldier. 

Kally shoved her way to the front of the crowd to examine the man further. A glance told her that he was well beyond even her skill. He had bled heavily into the ground, and there were parts of him on the ground that really should have been inside him. Distantly, she was aware of even the battle-hardened soldiers fighting the urge to retch. 

"What happened?" Kay demanded. "We were to light all of this." 

Lara looked at the body, and at the torches placed at the perimeter of the camp. "Not well enough, it seems, or the creature grows stronger." 

"Or we thought 'camp', 'walls' and got complacent," Justinia growled, wiping her bloodstained hands on a grubby bit of rag. "It came over the wall," she nodded at the high stone wall that fenced off the camping ground, "or so we assume, attacked poor Sanjey. It fled when we came at his screams…but too late, I fear." She looked at the now still corpse and sighed. "A high price to pay for not being bothered to walk all the way up to the proper latrines." 

"It is." 

The silence was punctuated only by shifting feet and flickering flames, as more members of the princess's force brought torches and lanterns and set them up around the walls, around their camp. 

"Do you want me to go and see if there's any trace of it?" Lara asked, as Kay stood up. 

Kay gave her an appraising look, and nodded slightly when Lara tilted her head minutely against the wall. 

"Go, please." There was something more significant under her words 

"I shall be back before dawn, I should think," Lara was contemplative, as she and Kay wandered off a little distance. "I don't think it was the actual wraith – which shouldn't be bothered by walls – but its slaves are hardly less bothersome. Owl, do you think?" 

"That's the classic. Unless you want to do bat." 

Yevgen was staring at them both with an expression of pure disbelief. 

"No thanks. Wish me luck then – my commander and _cousin_." With that, she blurred in the air – but red rather than ultramarine, and a grey mottled owl stood in the grass in her place. She stepped up onto Kay's outstretched arm when the princess bent down (Kay had hastily wrapped her toga around her forearm – she had whipped it off mid-sprint to give herself more freedom of movement), and then allowed her friend to launch her into the air. She hovered momentarily, and then was gone. 

Yevgen was still gaping. "How?" he asked. 

"Aulan had an ice-skating party a few winters back, just after Kay and Ris got back from your coronation," Radanae was able to speak now that someone had thrown a sheet over the unfortunate Sanjey. "She was doing a triple-flip, double-axle combination, but came down heavily on some thin ice. She went under, and came up as an otter. It pretty much shocked all of us sober, and at one of Aulan's parties, that's _really_ saying something." 

"So since there's really only one major source of _that_ particular little trick, we went back and tried to work out where it came from," Kay continued the story, "it appears – that the last time there was a boy in the family – he didn't record all his pastimes…and hence…well, she's actually our fourth cousin. It was a bit strange when I found out too," she tried to comfort her brother, who was looking rather sick. 

"Excuse me," he croaked, bowed, and moved off hastily. 

"Why do I have the feeling that I've just missed most of that conversation, Highness?" Azim looked at the departing prince with some curiosity. 

"It's not something we discuss very much," Radanae said undiplomatically, with a glance at Kalasin. 

"It doesn't bother me," Kally insisted as they began to move back towards the Palace. "I too, am curious." 

Radanae looked helplessly at Kay and Lizzie, imploring a rescue from this most unexpected position. 

They took pity. "Shall we say…" Lizzie trailed off, then paused to think, "that young Lara there was once considered as a match for my cousin – before her Majesty, and we have a rather different view on consanguinity than most." 

"It's long been believed that sufficient power to…ah…Change comes from only one original source…" Kay continued delicately. 

Kally understood. "But…you're an atheist, aren't you?" 

Kay made a noncommittal gesture. "For all practical purposes, yes – but even I admit that there are things that can't be explained with a mathematical formula. This is one of them." 

"But that's irrelevant," Justinia interrupted bluntly. "The fact is – the older families, the ones with magic, don't marry their cousins. If you go back far enough – all of them come from nomadic horse-breeding stock, and being involved in that gives you a pretty good understanding of practical genetics and inbreeding depression…" 

"…and the results of that are rather more…drastic…if there's magic involved." The circle returned to Radanae. She looked uneasily at their visitors, wondering how she should phrase her next comments politely. "Usually…well…sickliness, the odd dose of insanity…but when there's a powerful magical talent in there, together with the weakness of mind or body…it usually spells disaster." 

"That's one of the reasons why they banned blood magic, all those years ago," Kay chipped in. "The last blood mage was from a family that prided itself on the strength of its magical skills – and they tried to 'concentrate' that by marrying close within the family for generations. The inevitable happened. The final result was both more powerful than anyone could ever imagine, and also quite thoroughly insane. She killed about a hundred thousand people before she was through." 

"That's why you may have observed that we're just a _little_ paranoid about inbreeding," Lizzie concluded.   
  


By silent agreement, the topic of the conversation was not continued when the King of Sarain returned and made his apologies. Instead, they turned to their plans for the next day, of sending out small groups to search the mountains, both for the magical concerns, and for the fugitive Teymuranz. 

After the meeting concluded, everyone went their separate ways, mainly back to their quarters for some much-needed sleep. Rasoul whispered a request to his niece, and she allowed him to escort her towards the guest quarters after she darted a look of permission towards Radanae and Kay, and got nods of assent from both. 

"My niece," he began, as they moved off towards the guest quarters, the others in the party hovering around trying to conceal their interest, "if it would not break confidences, it would be of assistance were you to explain the significant of that little display we saw down in the camp ground." 

A pause. Then, resigned, Noor began. "It's no secret, my lords, my lady, nor is it a terribly long story. I see some parallels to your situation some years ago, Majesty," she inclined her head towards Kelson, who jerked in shock. "Lara – that was the knight who came in during dinner – and King Yevgen were once considering an betrothal. Empress Vanaria decided that he should come to Sarain and marry Queen Kalasin." 

"That's it?" 

"As much as is relevant," Noor shrugged. "It's a tacit agreement we all have not to mention it, for the comfort of all those involved. There's nothing between Lara and his Majesty anymore, of course – but it does no good to think of things that might have been but never were." 

Kelson looked keenly at her at that, detecting a slight tone of disapproval towards his own reaction to his losses. He thought it rather unfair of her. "What was the significance of …of…" 

"Shapechanging? Quite a bit." It was information that was going to become obvious soon enough, "it's quite a rare ability – and usually it runs in families – most prominently in the Imperial family itself. Generally, if an aristocrat has the ability, it will have inevitably have come from a younger child of the Imperial family, but, until the famous party – which I did not attend, so all that I know is hearsay – no one had any inkling that Felara Eriel had any talent of that nature. It was only after that happened that investigations began, and the source found – a younger brother of one of the Empresses." 

"And how is it significant?" Rasoul was still just a tad confused. He blamed it on the number of shocks already suffered in the last few days. Retirement, and visiting his young grandchildren more, was suddenly sounding very attractive. 

"Umm…how should I put it…most Imperial knightly families, particularly those with powerful gifts, are very concerned about their marriage partners – especially after the incident that Princess Berenice mentioned. They regard us in the Eleven Kingdoms as rather…well…strange for marrying for politics alone when there are other issues at stake. You'll find that – most unusually – there is little intermarriage between the very great knightly Houses, and a great number of knights who marry commoners. Simply put, uncle, Imperials find it…distasteful, even repugnant to wed their kin. His Majesty was rather taken aback by his new knowledge," Noor was visibly getting more and more uncomfortable as she continued, her pauses and stammers getting more frequent. It was not a topic of conversation the standard training offered at the Academy had ever contemplated. Saying 'well, when they first heard about you, Kelson, everyone spent a few minutes remarking about how odd it was that you were so inbred and yet apparently had marginally more mental function than a backward radish' didn't seem very appropriate. Neither did the next thoughts of most people who read his files, which was something along the lines of 'Good grief, you're absolutely pathetic about women, and more childish at twenty than you were at fourteen…and you married your cousin? Were they too scared to let you out of the family or something?' Noor was definitely not going to repeat the speculations of the less polite and more astute, but it was getting difficult not to wade into those waters as the polite-remnants-of-proper-noble-R'Kassi-lady was being held under the surf by the direct-and-blunt-Imperial-knight. 

Rasoul was too noble to enjoy the suffering of his niece for long, even though he didn't know the true reason. so he gently steered the conversation away, drawing Matyas and Morgan in so that they could discuss differences in business etiquette between Torenth and the Empire, and whether Duke Matyas' vineyards would be able to carve out a niche in the boutique wines market…   
  


Dhugal, however, had felt no need to follow the others. After most of the party had already departed, he saw a figure paused at a bed of brightly coloured flowers edging the path that joined the gardens of the guest quarters to the main gardens. Straightening his tunic, he walked towards Dama Yelizabeta Delmaran, as he recalled her full name – though everyone called her by the diminutive 'Lizzie'. 

"My lady," he greeted her, bowing. 

"Lord Dhugal," she inclined her head, pausing in her inspection of the flowers. 

"A most eventful day," Dhugal began. 

"It has been, has it not?" 

"They are beautiful flowers lady," Dhugal continued, "though their beauty cannot compare with yours." 

Lizzie turned towards him fully, an expression of indulgent amusement upon her face. "I am flattered, your Grace," she said, not-quite-laughter in her voice. "An old dame always needs her vanity stoked." 

"Lady…" 

She smiled at him. "I am flattered, make no mistake, my lord. But, I am an old dame – compared to you. You cannot be more than one and twenty can you?" 

Dhugal conceded that this was the case, but was about to state that a few years made no difference, when she spoke again. 

"My lord, by the standards of you in the Eleven Kingdoms, I'm old enough to be your mother. I believe that your father the Bishop isn't all that distant from me in years," she smiled again, as Dhugal blinked several times. The a few more. She got that reaction a lot. Once the initial impact of her looks had faded, most observers couldn't place her age – she could have been anything from a mature sixteen to a very youthful sixty – though she was in her mid-thirties. "I bid you good night, my lord," she said with a smile, as she strode off in the direction of her own room, leaving a floundering, gaping Duke of Cassan in her wake. 

  
_Notes: The Imperials have invented sports bras. I didn't think that what the Tortallans seem to think adequate (strips of cloth) would really be up to full combat of their style. 'Dama' is used from a military inferior to a higher-ranking female officer, regardless of formal knighthood. It is, both as a title and a term of address, simply the feminine of 'sir'.___

_Matyas Furstan Komnene d'Arjenol, 28, youngest half-brother of Liam's father, and his favourite uncle (partially by default, considering Liam's family – let's say that the Delmarans, with their selective infanticide and ruthlessness are almost polite by comparison - though Matyas is quite a nice character in his own right.) He is basically to Liam what Nigel and, to a lesser degree, Giselle, are to their respective kin – mentor and protector. Rislyn was 24 when she took her throne – Kelson was (not quite) 14, Liam was 10, so she was a lot better equipped for the job than the boys were. Keen viniculturist, married, with one son, and, in 'King Kelson's Bride', mentions his wife expecting another. I've made that one a boy too, just for simplicity's sake – and to make the 'next generation' stories a bit more interesting (shameless plug for the teaser chapter of 'Lillias', which I posted here a week or so ago – it takes place eighteen years after this story, and yes, practically everyone here is still alive then)___

_If you missed the selective infanticide, Yevgen makes a remark right at the beginning (when discussing Kelson's twin sons) about his family making sure that there is not more than one female survivor from a multiple birth. He hasn't said anything about the real reason that there aren't very many boys – they're often killed at birth, and reported as 'stillborn' – but in Yevgen's case, his father intervened, and insisted that he live, and Vanaria was really in no shape to object. Selective infanticide is fairly common (though not spoken about), in the knightly families, especially the older, warrior clans, for various reasons – usually involving perceived congenital physical and mental disabilities._   
  



	15. Secrets Revealed

A Secret Revealed

The courtyard as a bustle of activity as preparations for a day of searching in the mountains for both the issues of concern. The Princess Berenice had arranged to split her own troops into groups of fifteen or so, and joined them with members of Yevgen's K'mir and Doi scouts, and they would be sent in rotation through the mountains, day and night, searching systematically with the aid of maps put together from a composite of all their information. One assumed that she was astute to assign the more skilled teams, with the greater number of alternatively-skilled individuals to the night shifts. While she had obviously not intended that the visitors from Torenth and Gwynedd would play an active part in such a search, she deferred to her brother in the matter, who saw no reason that they should not join in the searches itself, for Lord Teymuranz concerned them far more than he concerned the Imperials. They did not anticipate staying out in the mountains continuously, planning to return each sunset unless they should come across a significant trail. 

Lady Richenda, of course, remained behind. While she was skilled in her magical gifts, and a good rider, even she conceded that she could not be of more help in the saddle than she could from the Palace, communicating with her husband through mind-speech. Rose, Princess Berenice's secretary, offered to keep her _company_. She _claimed_ that she was weeks behind on paperwork. 

But one lady was determined not to be left behind.   


"Kalasin, what do you think you're doing?" Yevgen strode quickly through the crowd in the courtyard to reach his wife's side as she examined the girth on her favourite black gelding. 

"Saddling up," she replied, with a look on her face that plainly stated that she was confused at the question. Well she might. He had never challenged her actions before – at least, never publicly, and never for real (they disagreed politely over a few political hypotheticals – but hypotheticals they were, and would, hopefully, remain). 

"Kally, you're not coming with us." It was a bald statement of fact, leaving no room for argument or dissent. 

She gaped at him. She would have expected this from any other arranged marriage, to anyone else in the Eastern Lands, autocratic, patronising and domineering, but not from Yevgen. For a moment, she was speechless. She took a deep breath and was about to say just what she thought of such ludicrous behaviour from him, when he evidently noticed that Orion, her horse, did not completely shield them from the others in the courtyard – specifically their visitors, and the other Imperials. With a muttered oath, and a mental order to Orion to stay exactly where he was, he clamped a gloved hand over Kally's wrist and quite literally dragged her away to somewhere more private before she could so much as mouth a protest. 

He was stronger than she was. A lot stronger. She had always, at least intellectually, known that, but he had never demonstrated it so to her before. At last, they stopped in a deserted alcove. 

"Kalasin, before you say anything, I am perfectly aware that you're a superb archer. I know that you're a excellent rider, and can take care of yourself in a fight even against a full knight." 

"Then why?" she asked furiously, twisting her wrist out of his iron grasp. 

He let her go. 

"Kalasin, think for a second. We can't both be out there in the same place, at the same time when it's so dangerous. What happens if you get killed? Kally, look at me," he grabbed her upper arms and forced her to look into his eyes. There was a desperation there that wasn't at all keeping with his usual controlled self, even if, as was fitting on a field mission, he wasn't wearing any cosmetics (visible freckles were vastly preferable to running make-up). "If you die, what happens?" he repeated. "There's an infant on the throne, and quite possibly civil war over the Regency – that's if they don't kill Lillias out of hand - until Ris orders the Swords in to put the fighting down in a far bloodier manner than any of us would wish. Then Sarain fades into history, just another faraway, unimportant province – another duty post, an easy honour to be awarded to whoever the Empress favours. Can you honestly want that?" 

"That's preposterous," Kalasin protested. "You can't say that it's not the same risk for you out there. Even if I die, and I certainly don't intend to, there's you." 

Silence. 

"No, Kalasin. There won't be. That's the point. I _won't_ live without you." His voice was quiet. 

Kalasin was about to make clear just what her opinion of such uncharacteristically maudlin sentiment was, when another voice interrupted. 

"Actually, for once in his life, my dear twin is actually speaking literally, and not using romantic ramblings." 

"Kay!" Yevgen rounded furiously on his sister. "This is a private conversation!" 

Kay snorted a most unprincess-like word. "It's a private conversation you two should have had a long time ago. You're had nearly six months to bring it up – and you've had nearly three years to discuss quite a lot of other things. What other important things don't you two discuss? As co-rulers that's very irresponsible. What my brother says is perfectly right, Kalasin. He dies when you do. That's the bargain he made for your life when Lillias was born." 

Kalasin must have looked confused, eyes darting in alarm between her husband and her sister-in-law. 

Kay threw up her hands in exasperation, and cast a very dirty look at her brother. "I'll be blunt. You're meant to be dead. Six months dead, in fact, when Lillias was born. Has my brother explained the concept of Life-Chasing to you?" 

Numbly, finally beginning to understand, finally beginning to understand the darkness and pain that had enveloped her during Lillias's birth, Kally nodded. 

"Good. At least he's partially communicative. _Men_." The single word said it all. "Unfortunately, since it's so dangerous, and requires so much power, it's not actually taught anywhere except at the very senior classes at the Healer's College – which very few knights attend, if at all. But, as you may imagine, Life-Chasing is a fixture in practically every adventure and romance novel, so we all know the theory behind it. However, my brother, who has spent his entire life trying to make people think he's less capable than he is – has always known that his Gifts are strong enough to do it, even though he's never been trained in it." She paused, glancing from Kally to Yevgen and back again. "So you died. He went to bring you back. But once he found you, he discovered that the thread of his own life was hanging so thin that he couldn't bring you back with him. So he bargained. His for yours, so whenever Lady Death should chose to ask for you, he comes too. The End." She added unnecessarily. "So if you get yourself killed now, it defies the whole point of the exercise. I think Evie had years and decades in mind rather than weeks and months." 

Kally had to open and close her mouth several times before sound came out. "Why?" she asked at last, eyes brimming with tears. 

He folded her into his arms. "I love you," he said softly, breath barely stirring her hair. After a few moments (while she probably sobbed enough into his mail shirt to have him scrubbing the rust off for weeks), he let her go. 

He turned to face his sister. "How on earth did you know?" he asked accusingly. 

She rolled her eyes. "Right. Perhaps you were doing 'Advanced Theoretical Calculus' when I was doing 'Extension to Magic of Rite and Ritual', but surely you remember something about power-bonds?" 

He nodded. 

"Good. Now, there are several sorts, remember," she spoke slowly, though she was clearly exasperated, "firstly, there's the one that you two probably have now. But what's the really _obvious_ one?" she sighed, and snapped her fingers, bringing up a little wisp of ultramarine fog on her palm, the same colour as Yevgen's Gift. "Twins." She supplied, helpfully. "So – guess who you tried to draw energy from first, probably unconsciously? I'm more than happy to help you with your spells, Yevgen. I would be the first to help you, Kalasin, but I would appreciate being asked before you decide to tap my Gift. Because," she drew the word out, "since we're across more than half a continent, I had no idea what you were doing before you panicked and tried to draw more energy in from whichever reserves and resources you had – including me." She shrugged. "I was at Ishtar's name-giving celebration, and I fainted literally into the refreshments table. The mages who were there did the first thing that came to their minds – namely, block the link temporarily. When I came to, we discussed it. And when you sent news of Lillias's birth – I think we all knew what had happened. We're trying very hard to keep it quiet, of course," Kay finished. 

"Quiet?" Kally was still stunned. 

"Of course. You don't really want assassins knowing something like that, do you? That they only have to put their efforts into killing one of you? Kalasin, please, for all our sakes – for Lillias's sake, and Sarain's if not for my brother's – please don't do anything…rash. We _all_ love you very much – _almost_ as much as he does – and we'd hate to lose you." 

"But what if he…" 

"Oh, it doesn't work the other way," Kay shrugged an easy shoulder, "and you can't do it back – it confuses the issue. Likewise, he can't do it again – for you, or for anyone else. He only has one life, Kalasin – yours." Eyes – a darker blue than Kalasin's, almost black – pierced to the very bottom of her soul. 

Then, they lightened slightly, though, later, Kally would guess that it was forced. "But I doubt that he'll die of any other cause. Lady Death is a romantic," 

Evidently the last meant a lot more to Yevgen than it did to Kally, for he was staring at his twin with a look of abject horror and disbelief. He was doing that a lot, lately. So much for twins instinctively knowing each other. 

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, little brother," she told him, "of course I'm not a death-cultist. I'm a military commander, and a good one, I should hope. Lady Death and I are on familiar enough terms to understand each other very well." 

With that, she left them in the alcove, her boot-soles unnaturally loud of the stone paving.   
  
  
  


"Leave them alone for a bit," she told the guard she had stationed outside. "They need to talk." 

"True," Justinia nodded. The huge knight's awesome presence tended to deter the curious. 

A pause. 

"Is it true what your brother said? About the Regency?" Justinia, like a true warrior, despised politics, though she had a keen understanding of the game. It wasn't just her martial skills and superhuman endurance that had made her Duxa Prima. 

Kay nodded. "They're different here – and, at any rate, there aren't any other heirs, the way that there are so many disgustingly talented Delmaran princesses crawling everywhere. Odette's going to be a fine one, too, if she ever gets some sense of dignity. What …will…happen, I think…knowing Ris…is that Kelvar Gavrillian will be ordered to stop dawdling, a formal offer will go to Tortall again, and then we'll be seeing the coronation of King Kelvar and Queen Lianne. Nice enough kids, both of them, but both you and I know that Yevgen and Kalasin are far better at this sort of thing than either of them are. Far happier here than either of them will be, too. Kelvar needs to roam…and there's a free spirit buried far beneath the younger Tortallan Princess. Yevgen needed peace, and a place to call home. Kalasin needed something to create with her own two hands and her own mind. They have that here – they're happy here. Kelvar and Princess Lianne would both be miserable, though they would do their duty as well as they could. That's what they – and we – have been bred and trained to do." 

"True enough." Justinia agreed. "and…your niece?" 

Kay sighed. "Ris won't risk even her own daughter on the throne as an infant – too unstable. In the worst event - I've agreed to take it – and to declare Ishtar Heir when she's knighted – but not hand over. I've sworn that. There's not much of a career opportunity for ex-Empresses. No. If something like that happens in Sarain, the throne gets offered straight to Lianne and Kelvar. As for my niece…Ris will not want a wildcard confusing the succession for Lianne and Kelvar's kids…well, children are so fragile, aren't they? All the fevers and chills of childhood – all the little accidents one can have. Even if Lillias makes it to the Academy – it's a dangerous place, as we both know." 

"Ris would have her own niece killed?" Justinia's voice was a horrified whisper. Empresses were meant to put the Empire above themselves, but this? 

"Ris would have Ishtar killed if she had to," Kay's voice was equally hushed. "She threatened it – when we had the talk about me remaining Heir. She's scared, Jussie. Not just what happens with her, but what happens afterwards. The Empire's too big – too stretched – and because we're all but an autocracy now, everything lies with the Empress, and the slightest tremble with the succession is going to hit like an earthquake in the far provinces. It was shaky enough when she took the Diadem, and she's young, sane and competent. She said that if I even thought about simply standing aside when Issy got her knighthood, she'd just leave orders that Issy would die from a stray arrow in a bandit hunt, or from a fall down the rockclimbing course. So I've agreed to make Issy my Heir in that event, and not to abdicate." There was quiet, before Kay took a shuddering breath. "But why be morbid? None of that's going to be relevant if we don't catch this blood wraith, and do it soon." 

"Too right," Justinia grumbled. 

"We…er…won't tell 'Danae this, will we?" Kay looked at her aide. "It does concern her brother." 

"I won't, Highness," Justinia answered. "But what makes you think she hasn't already worked it out?"   
  


"How could you do that?" Kalasin was asking him again, still holding him tight. 

"Did you honestly think I'd let you die, when I could have saved you?" 

Kalasin drew back a little, knuckled her eyes, before visibly pulling herself together. "Two nights ago…in the garden…and before…was that why you've been…well…" 

He understood, and ducked his head. "Childbirth is very dangerous." He offered lamely. "And seeing you there once… I don't think…when I couldn't do it again…" he trailed off, swallowed, then put on his 'academic' hat. Kalasin had long known that he was a good deal more intellectual that he let on to the Council. The speed at which he read even the most complex legislation was a clue that very few of them had managed to pick up. "One of the reasons that the Consort is so often a mage…" he continued, trying to detach himself, failing miserably. "Originally to Life-Chase when it became necessary, it had the side-effect of putting rather more 'special talents' into the family that most of the other Houses are strictly comfortable with. Also why most of my – well, our – friends won't be providing playmates of a suitable age for Lillias." 

"I had wondered about that. Lizzie's not had children?" 

He shook his head, "No, but that's through choice. She claims she hasn't found anyone she'd want to share breakfasts regularly with, much less a child. Of the female friends she had at the Academy, fully a third have already died in childbed." 

Kally's eyebrows went up in shock. 

"Well, we are having a period of comparative peace." He paused, "Actually, it's the second or third most common cause of death for a female knight under the age of thirty five. Then, most of Lizzie's friends – and mine, come to think of it – come from the military families." 

"What's that to do with it?" Kally asked, frowning. 

He looked almost embarrassed. "Ah…let me put it this way…My sister – Kay - is widely regarded as having the perfect classical proportions for a female knight. There are some differences between that and the more common perceptions of beauty outside the Empire." 

Kally thought for a while. She'd always thought her sister-in-law, actually both her sisters-in-law, for that matter, exceptionally pretty. Good looks evidently ran rampant in her husband's family, from what she saw of his cousins. It was difficult to say just what... 

"From a purely biological perspective, her hips are far too narrow. Not so much on Ris, or Empress Vanaria" Yevgen offered when she looked up in confusion. "The military families have fighters both sides of their line, and they've been breeding like that for generations. Knights or no, military types attract other military types, and if they live long enough to think about having families, they generally have the better builds for fighting. Brains too," he added, though it was clearly an afterthought. "Dad's family were almost exclusively military…" 

"You've never spoken of your father…" Kalasin murmured. 

"No. He died…some years ago. We…were close." It was evidently one of those things he didn't talk about – one of those things nobody else in the family spoke about either, Kalasin realised, but it was not something of importance to the here and now. There was so much she still didn't know about her husband, no matter how much she loved him. He would baffle her sometimes…and then…this. Not an undertaking anyone would ever take lightly, not something she had expected even from him, knowing that he loved her with whole heart and soul – but equally knowing that he, like her, was of a royal family. A good royal family, she was rapidly realising, for all that its other members confused her as much as this lone male scion, one that took its duties and responsibilities above all else. Above their desires, above their whims, above their hearts. She clung to him tightly, wondering if she would ever know the true Yevgen Delmaran.   
  
  


"It's been three years – it's more than time they had a good squabble," Kay told the curious Radanae as she returned to the courtyard, leaving Justinia to glare away sightseers. 

"What about?" she asked, noting that there were keen eyes coming from their visitors, who waited just behind with their horses. 

"What you'd expect. Coming, not coming, one of them having to stay behind with Lillias, how he's better with a bit of metal than she is, how he can't really do much if my niece gets hungry, that sort of thing. Of course, the _other thing_, too." Kay paused thoughtfully, while Radanae nodded. As scion of an important family, as well as a friend, she had invitations to all the court functions, great and small, and had been there when Kay had upset the delicate creations of an entire army of chefs. "They'll be a few more minutes, ten at most. Cold stone is _most_ uncomfortable, and I thought I had better get out before it got a little too heated in there." 

"You honestly think so?" Radanae looked sceptical. 

Kay snorted, and inclined her head over at the passageway that led to the courtyard from the building as she swung up into Nightwraith's saddle. The big black stallion curvetted slightly, showing off. He was fully a hand taller than any of the other mounts nearby, including those of their visitors, and was emphatically asserting his authority. 

Yevgen was coming out into the yard looking most definitely dishevelled, a far cry from his usual immaculate self. Kalasin was nowhere in sight, presumably having gone back inside to watch the departures with Lady Richenda (Rose had claimed she had far better things to do than wave a handkerchief like a maniac and gone to take over the library). Kay raised an eyebrow in surprise as another figure emerged from the shadows to walk, too confidently, towards the horse lines.   


Yevgen grabbed Odette by the arm as she casually tried to saunter past on the way to the horses. "Not you too," he said shortly. "You stay, and look after Kalasin." The last was clearly an afterthought. 

Odette opened her mouth in protest, then she looked searchingly at her older cousin. "What's the matter with you? Your hair's all mussed up and you've got bruises around your mouth." 

A quick exchange of glances among the nearby cluster of knights, and Radanae dismounted, leading Luana over to the cousins before Yevgen could so much as splutter. 

"Excuse me, Yevgen," she said, surprisingly diffidently, "'Dette's a Delmaran. Gods know, you'll need as many special talents as you can on this adventure. I'll stay and help Kally and Lillias and Lady Richenda. I can use steel as something more than an ornament, you know, and I'm not entirely incapable of lighting-bolts. Odette," she turned to the girl, "see how you and Luana work together. If she thinks you're suitable, I'll have a talk to your mother. There's a filly due later this spring who might be a good match for you if you pass your Trials." 

The look that suffused over the girl's face could only be described as joy as she stroked the creamy mare's face with an expression very close to wonder. Luana tossed her head, equine chuckles reverberating through the minds of the wildmages – also through that of Lord Dhugal, who turned to look at them, stunned. "You two look after each other," Radanae spoke to both of them, then turned to Yevgen. "I'll keep in touch through Luana. I can't do humans even when I'm touching them, but Louie here," the mare, evidently, didn't like the diminutive as she stamped a well-shod hoof, making the cobblestones ring, "and I can do it for quite a bit." 

Yevgen nodded tightly, unable to refute the logic. Shapechanging would be a precious skill in the force, despite its heavier presence in the specialist legion compared to regular army units, but he was still reluctant to take someone so young. The legal minimum for a soldier was 18, though Knight-Cadets frequently spent summers as 'observers' in military units involved in 'clean-ups' at 16 and 17. 

'Clean ups' that somehow changed a lot of things for so many cadets. Radanae's reaction to gory death, for one, when she had previously devoured crime-novels by the score, for one, and his own weakness in watercraft, even though he had once been a keen sailor, and was still a superb swimmer even in human form.   
  


"I hate this!" Kalasin growled quietly, watching the troops depart, splitting off into smaller groups and riding into the mountains. 

"It is the lot of w…non warriors, Kalasin," Richenda corrected, hastily changing her words when it was easily apparent now that watching men go off to battle was not the lot of Imperial noblewomen. 

"I can't believe it," Kalasin turned from the window. "It's even worse than when I was home. My homeland is somewhat more like the Eleven Kingdoms than the Empire," she explained shortly. "My mother – who is a daughter of these very mountains – rode out. She has her own cavalry units. My father's Champion is a female knight, and she is renowned for her skill in all the Eastern Lands, but they are both very unusual. My friends and I would stay behind, and watch them go, but I never believed that it could be any worse – until I find that it is – when I alone must remain behind and they all go off, and I have no idea what is to become of them!" Kalasin slammed a hand against the wall in frustration, then forcibly relaxed. "I do apologise, Richenda, I am overwrought." 

Richenda, who had seen her husband – well, husbands, to tell the truth – ride off to battle more times than she really cared to call – sympathised. It was one thing – when it was the standard practice for all ladies, and that ladies would be no more than hindrance in an army, for all that she had once followed the King's train so long ago, in order to try and reason with her first husband, when he had turned traitor. How much more difficult must it be for a woman who was trained in war – for, it did not take a great deal of intelligence to gather that the Queen of Sarain could take care of herself very well should she not be in reach of bodyguards – and one who lived in a land where other women rode off to defend their land, leaving her behind? 

For it was clear that Queen Kalasin had participated in activities no noblewoman from the Eleven Kingdoms would ever dream of – in a military sense, of course. Her most recent activities were obvious, and far more commonplace. Black hair was escaping from its tightly pinned braids, there were faint bruises on lips, and her clothing was wrinkled under her light armour. Kalasin had been too long in Sarain, a Queen in her own right – and married too long to its King – to really be embarrassed about it towards strangers (to close friends, those who had known either of them from childhood, was a different matter entirely). 

In obvious anticipation of accompanying the small scouting groups, Kalasin wore soft black riding leathers, and light armour of chain mail subtly reinforced with plate, clearly made for her (it was a birthday present, together with Orion, a necklace, some books, and a very nice bouquet of flowers, from Yevgen). Imperial armourers, long used to female knights and soldiers, had developed slightly different designs for male and female, though both were equally functional. The sword at her side, though not as heavy even as the ones that Richenda had seen borne so easily by the Princess Berenice and her lieutenants, was clearly well-used, and finely made. 

A puzzling woman, this young Queen, Richenda decided. She lived the dreams of so many a young noblewoman – wealth, beauty, lands, power, titles, even a handsome, charming husband and an adorable child – and even those that seemed so out of reach, that of a warrior maid, free to do as she wished…or at least seemingly so. 

Kalasin paced, the air around her seeming to crackle with frustration and energy, before she forced herself to calm. Richenda marvelled at how the warrior maiden (in the proverbial sense, of course) so swiftly retreated beneath the guise of a more conventional Queen – gracious, restrained, dignified. More outspoken, more independent, less deferential to her husband than most, but still, a Queen of the sort that Richenda was more used to seeing. 

Queens of a sort far more common this side of the mountains.   
  


_Just out of curiosity, who picked the Yevgen/Kalasin thing up? There were hints in Chapters 3, 4, 8, and 10. Did I need to be more obvious? Or does it make more sense now?_

_Right, I **really** have to go now. There probably won't be any more posts for at least four weeks or so. Reviews and feedback will sustain me in my time apart. (ie, these chapters are both more than 4000 words long, I would actually like to know whether I'm wasting my time or not)_   



	16. Old Friends and a new acquaintence

_Yes! I'm back, and earlier than I thought (I got sick of studying). If people are impatient to find out what happens far, far in advance, I've started yet another story. It's called 'A Knight's Tales', the memoirs of Radanae Gavrillian, and it's posted under Originals:Fantasy. I'll leave it to you to work out just how far into the future it's written – suffice to say, it starts off quite a bit into the reign of Empress Berenice VII. (Hint, Ris, Kay and Yevgen's grandmother was Berenice VI. Berenice is the default name of a Delmaran princess, if you haven't noticed by now. There are a lot of them, which is why Kay is 'Kay'. Berenice VII is 'Nicky', though I haven't gone into that yet.). By the way, can anyone guess where I swiped the name of Kelvar's horse from? (Answer is in the notes at the end)._

**Old friends, a new acquaintance, and Dhugal gets beaten up**

Numair Salmalin did briefly explain what he was doing to make their trip shorter, but stopped when Buri quite sternly ordered him to. They were getting to Sarain quicker than normal, and she didn't particularly want to think about how it was being done by someone she trusted. Mindful of the compliment, Numair spent the rest of the trip simply concentrating. It was a complicated spell, involving the manipulation of time as well as space, and involved just a few physical improbabilities, if not outright impossibilities. However, what is magic but the impossible, strung out on glittering threads of power and belief? 

"Don't you even feel restricted, coming down to bodyguard from dashing agent?" Princess Lianne of Tortall asked her perpetual shadow, slightly irritably. 

"I hardly think senior aide to an Ambassador is a demotion, Lianne," Sir Kelvar Gavrillian corrected mildly, overly reasonable. Brunellus, his muscular, white-faced bay stallion, stamped a finely-feathered white forehoof in emphasis. "It may be that I have rethought my career plans since I was a boy. I was overyoung to enter the Swords to begin with. Twenty-five is the traditional minimum, and I was barely knighted before the offer came. I only turned twenty-one a few weeks ago. I have plenty of time to make my career." 

Lianne humphed, sceptical, though the puzzle of his age (which had occupied her for longer than she would ever admit) was finally solved. He had made no secret that he was courting her, and he was doing it in a much more subtle, more intriguing way than any of the young men and boys of the Eastern Lands had tried. He fascinated her, but she would have gone to her grave before admitting that. No – she had been hurt once by him already, the previous summer. A summer spent with her sister and said sister's impossibly perfect (compared to all the alternatives) husband, meant to be a final summer of comparative freedom before a political marriage to someone completely disgusting. The late King Barnesh of Maren, old enough to be her grandfather, had been the favoured candidate then. Compared to the corpulent, condescending Barnesh, this handsome, pleasant young man had seemed like a gift from the gods. He had been polite to her, charming, attentive – until she had found that his attentions had been directed by the Empress herself. She sighed inwardly. She had met Kalasin's sister-in-law once, at Kalasin's coronation. Lianne remembered a slightly aloof, but still friendly woman, but evidently one who played politics with hearts and bodies as well as minds and money. 

A political marriage she had been resigned to – in fact, she had already made one. For all that she had never met Maggur Rathussak, she was technically the Queen Dowager of Scanra. But she had not been prepared for one that masqueraded as a love match. Not one where she would believe herself in love, while her husband inwardly laughed at her foolishness. No, she would have been content with a purely political match, one where her husband would simply respect her, if only for the alliance she brought, and treat her according to her station. 

She would not fall in love with someone who did not return it. 

Her love was all that she had truly to give. Her heart, her mind, her soul – they were the only things that Lianne could really call her own, and she was not going to give them away blindly. A princess did not even own her own body. For all her riches, her fine clothes, her jewels, in some respects she was even poorer than the lowliest farmgirl. 

She cast a sidelong glance at Kelvar. He had been solicitous this trip, concerned for her comfort and well being, but never stepping outside the bounds of Tortallan propriety. Another sigh threatened to escape.   
  
  


"What are you thinking?" Liam was startled out of his reverie by Odette as she and Luana edged up beside him. 

The two older men on either side dropped back with differing expressions – Matyas indulgent, even amused, Rasoul sternly disapproving. 

Liam was forced to spend a few seconds admiring the girl's mount. A fine cream mare, with intelligent dark blue eyes, and near-perfect confirmation (the mare's head was perhaps a little too broad – but he was not to know that most warhorses in the Empire were bred for brains, the same way most warriors were), standing at perhaps sixteen and a half hands high. A splendid creature, and one his own horse evidently thought so too, as Firefly pranced ridiculously, arching his neck, forcing Liam to curb the stallion sternly before the chestnut came back under control. 

It was then he noticed three things – one, that the mare was soundly disinterested in the pride of his stables, two, that her rider was equally amused, and thirdly, that Odette used no such elaborate ironmongery on her mount. In fact, there was not even a bit in the bridle, which was more like a halter with reins. A quick glance around revealed that of the Imperials, nearly all used simple snaffle bits, and a few used a halter like Odette. Interestingly enough, only a few of the Imperials, even those introduced as knights, rode stallions, most preferring geldings or mares. 

Liam realised that he hadn't answered the question. "Nothing much – just – about my uncle…you've a very fine horse," 

"Thanks," Odette smiled as Luana snorted, "but she's not mine. She belongs to Radanae Gavrillian – the Imperial Envoy." She leaned over to pat the proudly curved neck. "Your uncle?" she straightened up to look at Matyas. 

"No, not Matyas – no, his older brother, my uncle Teymuranz." 

"Ah, the one on the run?" 

Liam turned to stare at her. 

Odette shrugged easily. "Family disagreements are rarely so public. They tend to make news when they are." 

Liam had to admit that his uncle had chosen a rather spectacularly public occasion – his coronation – to defy him, but he was still a little uneasy of just how well-known his uncle's betrayal was. He scanned around, desperate to change the subject. He lighted on King Yevgen, now in conversation some distance from them with Kelson while Dhugal and Noor rode a little behind. "Your cousin seems pensive," he ventured. 

"He is." Odette shrugged. "Aren't you?" her eyes had the most disturbing quality, like they pierced straight into his soul. 

He was saved from the necessity of making a reply by the arrival of Princess Berenice. Her black stallion, markedly taller than Firefly, bared his teeth and snapped at the chestnut, who, uncharacteristically, sidled away. "Ah, there you are, Odette. I want you to go out in the group with Knight-Lieutenant Ferox, Clansman Buran and Lieutenant d'Arherindianius von Bresumarev here, to the site where they found the creature. The area, I'm told, is inhospitable, and we may need to get an aerial of the immediate surrounds." 

Behind her, a man in his early or mid twenties bowed slightly to Liam and Odette. He was not strictly handsome, but had an attractive face full of character and intelligence, and bore the insignia of a junior officer in the service of the Heir. Curiously enough, while his horse, armour and weapons were clearly expensive, of very good quality, and plainly the equal of any knight's gear, he did not wear the white belt or any of the other symbols of knighthood. 

Odette nodded at her cousin, and Luana stepped neatly around the cowed Firefly (the black stallion was glaring at Liam's mount in a distinctly predatory way) to join the princess. 

"Wait for a minute," Liam pulled Firefly's head around and kneed the reluctant horse to follow, "I'd like to come."   
  


The extravagantly named 1st-class Lieutenant Sarozi d'Arherindianius von Bresumarev, or, as he preferred to be known, 'Saro', was the product of an intermarriage between a powerful, wealthy merchant family and an equally proud military one, both only just barely below knightly House status. He had decided to follow the military traditions of his father's family comparatively late in life, entering the Imperial War College midway through his University degree, but making up for lost time with a vengeance. He had been in Kay's personal units for just over a year, an appointment that was very much sought after among young, ambitious soldiers, as it was clear that the new Empress was not the soldierly type by preference. 

He was a talented soldier, and a very promising commander (though none of his superiors or teachers would tell him that), but that was not the reason the princess had singled him out. Most soldiers have hobbies to distract them in the long, dull hours in the barracks. Some gamble (though discreetly). Others choose elaborate games of chess, play music, dance, draw, sew, or bicker with their fellows. The average border fort contains at least a score of half-finished literary masterpieces, each amateur author convinced that they have written the definitive work of the century. Saro's hobby was archaeology. He had majored in it at university, and still kept up his interest, even writing several papers on the subject (whether anyone actually read them is another matter entirely). However, lately, influenced by Justinia Ferox, whom he had known for several years (their mothers were friends), he had found that it was of great use in the specialist legions, particularly when they came upon the aftermath of combat. 

True, the specimens he encountered were rather younger than those he had been accustomed to on field trips, but, when the matter was closed, a body was a body, and it didn't care whether it had been there a month or a thousand years. Although thousand-year-old ones were considerably harder to find, and tended to be a bit less off-putting. Together with Justinia, who concealed her avid interest in forensics from her mother (Victoria Ferox was a coroner, and would have crowed with delight to know that her daughter shared some of her interests), he was able to discern causes of death and likely parties involved thereof when bodies were found. 

So now he found himself trotting after the sturdy, raw-boned pony of the patrol-leader, Buran, as they made their way to the rockfall where the creature had been found. He cast an amused glance at the two teenaged members of their party, who had been hemmed in to the protective middle – as Odette, as a Shapechanger was well-nigh irreplaceable, and in the case of Liam, a foreign monarch, it would be a little difficult to explain his disappearance too. It was extraordinary enough that he had managed to give his own escorts the slip simply by ordering them to stay behind, so the Imperials weren't going to risk him more than they needed to. 

Besides, his younger brother, the eleven year old Ronal Rurik, was an unmanageable, whiny little brat who logic would dictate should never come within a hundred leagues of a crown.   
  


"It's really very simple, your Grace," Noor was explaining the concept for the second time. "Think. Your Church is very powerful in Gwynedd, but at the moment they still support the King, or they are in very big trouble, no?" 

"Well…yes…" Dhugal still couldn't get his mind around the idea of having hundreds of different gods, and hundreds of ideas of faith. "They haven't always…" he ventured. 

"But when they happens, there is great…_mess_…is there not?" Noor tilted her head slightly, as her sleek brown mare pulled against the reins, wanting to go faster than their current measured trot. "But largely, the Church has great influence over the people, because nearly all follow that church, and in the main, they urge support for the Crown, and so your monarchs retain that support. It is not dissimilar to the _mullahs_ and _imams_ in R'Kassi, I think," she flickered a look over at her uncle, who was still muttering indistinctly about the ease with which King Liam had slipped away to join an Imperial patrol, and other topics quite a bit ruder. "They urge support for King Bahadur Khan and the nobles now, but I have no doubts that things would become rather…_strained_…should they not do so. And we all know that. Now," she said, rapidly changing the topic, "that won't work in the Empire. There are too many different faiths to begin with, and there is not one so dominant that they can truly think to have any success in converting the followers of the others, no, let me finish," she held up a hand when Dhugal made to speak, "there seriously aren't. One doesn't live very long in the Empire without becoming devastating practical, I'm afraid. So…the religions, the faiths are all scattered, none big enough to be a significant influence throughout the entire Empire, and so, the only logical way for the Empress is to favour none, to be beholden to none, but make sure that all are beholden to her." 

"But surely…" Dhugal protested. 

"Surely what?" Noor smiled. "You forget, the religions and such were already well established in the provinces before they joined the Empire. There's no easier way to alienate a group of new citizens than to destroy their gods. The Imperials have their land, they have their taxes – it would be pushing too much to demand their pride too, when, in less than a generation they will have their loyalty and their allegiance as it is. It's different from the Eleven Kingdoms, where our kingdoms were all formed of peoples who largely shared the same faiths, the same traditions. It's a different form of control, Lord Dhugal – one less obvious, because it's a lack of control, making sure that there are no other significant authorities save the secular. The rule of law – secular law – applies to every Imperial citizen, and there are no allowances made for differences in custom and culture. There can be no conflict. No knight is permitted to become any more than a lay member of any religion and keep their rank, and no religious personage may have elected or judicial office." 

Dhugal chewed on this for some time, absorbing the completely alien concepts. "Another thing, Sheika," 

"Dama," Noor corrected. "or just 'Noor', if you prefer." 

"Dama. How is it that women bear arms in the Empire. Surely…" he trailed off, suddenly realising it was not exactly a terribly intelligent conversation topic, no matter how curious he was, when he was surrounded by women bearing weaponry. Very well made weaponry at that. 

Noor seemed more amused than anything else. "Why would they not?" she chuckled. "After all, we can do everything a man can do and more. Except maybe piss standing up," she added thoughtfully, as Dhugal cut back a gasp at the language she was using. "But in answer to your question, Imperials have different military traditions. The fighting techniques of the Eleven Kingdoms have tended to rely on strength and heavy weaponry right from the very start – where, even I have to admit, men tend to do a bit better. In contrast, the early Imperial traditions tell of horse-archers, of lightly armed fighters, where strength was less important than speed and skill. The same applied in R'Kassi and the desert kingdoms, at least until they came into contact with other peoples, and the coming of the Prophet." She muttered something under her breath after the last, which was _most_ definitely _not_ "Blessed be his name", but something rather less pious and definitely _much_ ruder. 

Dhugal was not convinced, "I can understand how that was the case then, but surely not now when…" 

He never got to finish the sentence. By the time his vision cleared, though it was barely a second later, he was flat on his back on the hard rock of the mountain trail, his horse standing over him with a curious expression of his face, as though he couldn't understand why his master had decided to so quickly dismount and lie on the ground. It was only his steel helm that had prevented him from being knocked unconscious. 

"Noor!" King Yevgen's voice was distinctly disapproving. The two kings had stood their horses at right angles to the fallen Dhugal, and were scrutinising the scene closely. "Now is not the time for diplomatic games. We are going to be having enough problems without knocking each other out of the saddle." 

"He asked," Noor said sourly, but dismounted to help Dhugal to his feet and give him a boost back into the saddle, before leaping into her own without the use of the stirrups. 

"I don't care if he asked you to sacrifice him to Ewekio Pain God of Nizawrida," Yevgen said exasperatedly, showing that he had been eavesdropping on their conversation even while continuing the one he was having with Kelson, "with the full rites. Those little tricks that Radanae's been teaching you aren't meant to be used except in an emergency or with an excruciating rude dinner party companion. They're not meant to be used to punctuate a sentence." 

He didn't even seem to move his hands as his bay gelding turned around and continued down the path. Kelson held a brief mental exchange to make sure Dhugal was all right, and also reassured Bishop Duncan, who, even now, was making his way through the crowd that had not yet dispersed into the mountains to get to his son, before he followed the King of Sarain. 

"I do apologise," Yevgen said as Kelson came up beside him. "She has, I think, lived too long among us. That little trick wouldn't exactly be unexpected after a conversation gambit like that if she was speaking to a male Imperial. Who, if he was even remotely observant, would have prepared the counter move." 

"You know how to do that?" Kelson asked without concealing his interest. He knew that Dhugal's skills as far as fighting went were hardly insignificant, and his skills had been trained on the harsh border regions, where sheer survival took preference over all else. 

"Technically. I've been taught, but I'm not quite as good at it as Noor is," the little bit of honesty came with a small grin. "The ladies in the Diplomatic Service tend to be the best at it, because they're the only ones who ever need to use it in earnest."   


Behind them, Berenice, looking annoyed, sent Noor off with the next patrol to chart their progress through the mountains.   
  
__

_Sarozi 'Saro' d'Arherindianius von Bresumarev, 24. Lieutenant of the Imperial Army. Promising commander and strategist. Keen amateur archaeologist and also interested in forensics. (Platonic) friends with Justinia Ferox, who got him the gig in Kay's personal specialist legion (nepotism starts early, but he really is extraordinary). Not strictly handsome, but striking. Looks a little like a younger Viggo Mortensen (Aragorn in 'Lord of the Rings').___

_NOTES_ __

_Deryni talents include telepathy. Both Kelson and Dhugal can do it. If you're curious, most Imperials, even those with 'special talents' can't.___

_If anyone is knowledgeable about tack, the bridles that the wildmages use look a bit like normal cavesson bridles, but the lower half of the noseband, the bit, and the strap that holds the bit to the rest of the bridle is missing. The noseband (well, nose-strap, really) is attached to the cheek strap with a metal ring, and the reins are attached to that. If you're not 'horsy', 1 hand = 4 inches = 10 centimetres, and a horse's height is measured from its withers (sort of where the back joins up to the neck – if you're curious, go check some horsy resources). Most of the destriers of the Imperials are between 16 and 18 hands tall, and correspondingly muscular, which would be extremely large for the Middle Ages (and still pretty big even now). Luana is 16½ hands tall - Radanae's only 5'8 – below average for a knight, short for a Gavrillian (though she would tower over me, sad to say). Nightwraith, (Kay's cliché black stallion) is about 18 hands tall (Kay's nearly 6 feet tall), as is Uma (Justinia's dapple-grey mare), and Everglade (Yevgen's bay gelding). Since Yevgen, and presumably the others, can jump up into the saddle wearing heavy armour without using their stirrups, I leave it to you to imagine how fit most knights are.___

_Their closest modern equivalents would probably be heavy eventing horses or hunters. Kelvar's bay stallion, Brunellus (the name is stolen from Umberto Eco's 'The Name of the Rose' – read it, it's good – and even if you don't agree, having it on your desk makes you look well-read) is probably about 19 hands tall, and looks a bit like a ¾ eventing horse, ¼ Clydesdale cross – in other words, massive (Kel is about 6' 4).___

_Also, if you're curious about Saro using his own weapons, horses and gear, while the Imperial Army does provide good-quality standard issue equipment, and excellent mounts, both commissioned officers and NCO's are permitted to use their own gear, and provide their own horses, if they prefer to do so. Most knights do, and since there's very little actual difference between a knighted and unknighted military officer (except knights are usually a bit younger than their counterparts), commanders are practical enough to realise that it's not really fair if the unknighted officers who can afford better things aren't allowed to use them. On a more cynical note, it's also cheaper, as then the Army needs only to pay for maintenance of the weapons (and some even take care of that privately) and for the care of animals.___

_Saro's well able to afford his things. Not all the serious money in the Empire belongs to the knightly ruling class – which is really quite small in comparison to the total population. There are plenty of very wealthy and influential merchant, banking, legal, and other families, and Saro's family is among them.___

_Noor's R'Kassi title of 'Sheika' can mean anything from 'minor Princess' (sort of like Princesses Eugenie or Beatrice) to 'Lady', depending on who you talk to, and which tradition they come from. In our world, it's still used to some extent in Saudi Arabia and the Gulf States. Basically, the title was just to indicate that she's an aristocrat by birth. Since Kurtz doesn't describe R'Kassi much, I imagine it to be a more conservative version of Saudi Arabia (if that's possible), which probably explains why someone with Noor's personality and upbringing in the Empire doesn't particularly like visiting. I apologise if I've got religious and cultural references wrong, but in my defence, this is a fantasy world, and furthermore, I'm not terribly keen on having ASIO (our version of the FBI/MI6) kicking my door down if I get a bit too enthusiastic about research on that particular topic (after the Bali bombings, they're a wee bit paranoid)._   



	17. Snippets

_If you're curious as to what Noor did to Dhugal, the explanation is in the first scene. Oh, and if you want to see just how the Imperial family is related, since there are so many cousins running around, I've got a partial family tree up at my homepage, or alternatively here at www.geocities.com/fhwon1/familytree.html_

Little Snippets/Dhugal gets beaten up some more 

"…no, it's like fencing. The muscles in your shoulder shouldn't visibly move. It's two steps – _first_ the backhand across the eyes, _then_ pull down on the arm…" 

Kalasin opened the door to the library just in time to see Radanae duck just as Kay's secretary swung her arm into the empty space that the diplomat's head had occupied, overbalanced, and fell off her chair. 

"…and _that's_ what happens if you swing too hard," Radanae sat up and casually pulled Rose off the floor. "That's why it's two movements. You don't actually have to hit them that hard, just enough to distract them before you pull them down. Any harder, and you're likely to knock them unconscious, and that's always a tad awkward to explain. Oh, and don't do it when the other person is expecting it either," she added, almost as an afterthought. 

"What are you doing?" Kally stepped into the room, followed by the Duchess Richenda, who looked at the scattered papers on the large library map-table with curiosity. 

"Party trick," Radanae said dismissively, pouring two cups of tea for the newcomers. "It's what you do if you've got an unpleasant dinner-party companion. If you're subtle and quick enough about it, you can usually convince them, and most other people on the table, that they've had a heart attack or a stroke and should really go home for a nice lie down. It takes practise," the last was directed at Rose, "it took Noor months, but she can do it on horseback now. Very useful for hunting parties," she commented. Then she changed the subject and addressed Richenda, "Lady Richenda, I know that you did not have the opportunity to meet Lord Teymuranz, but could you possibly cast your eye over these reports and say whether these movements are, in your opinion, consistent with his character as you know it…" 

Richenda scanned the smooth pages carefully, which were warm as though they had just been sitting in the heat of a thousand suns, but did not query why there were thick black lines drawn through some of the text, that neither keen scrutiny nor subtle use of her 'alternative' powers could discern.   


  
"Interesting," Saro took out magnifying glass and paintbrush and examined a rock lying just a few steps away from where Buran had indicated that the creature had been found. "I take it that there was no blood either on the creature, or in the surrounding area?" the question was directed at Buran. The K'mir shook his head. 

"Saro! Come and take a look at this!" there was just the slightest quaver in Justinia's normally strong, level voice, enough to give Saro alarm as he carefully replaced the stone and walked towards the knight as she stood, peering around the edge of a large sheet of rock. Almost absently, he motioned for the two teenagers to follow him. 

"What was he looking at?" Liam whispered, as they made their way across the rocky terrain. 

"No idea." Odette shrugged. "Did you see the thing?" she changed the subject rapidly. 

"Oh yes," Liam shuddered. "It was just like a week old corpse walking around." 

"You've _seen_ a week old corpse?" Odette was alive with curiosity. 

They had left his treacherous Uncle Mahael impaled before the gate to the Field of Kings, for far longer than that. Mahael, the richness of his finery rotting away on the sharpened stake with his flesh, had stood there until all had seen the fate of one who had betrayed his King. 

"I have." He said quietly. 

Odette was astute enough to not prod. It would make things difficult, and, at any rate, once she got back to the Palace she could ask either Radanae, or Kay's secretary, Rose for the details, because both were sure to know. 

"Has Dama Noor's uncle served you long?" Odette asked as they began to gingerly climb up the low rise to the sort of ledge where both Saro and Justinia were standing and conferring in low voices. 

"He served my Regents, and my brother before me," Liam said. "I would be long dead if it were not for my uncle Matyas and he. A King, perhaps, is the one person in his kingdom who must rely upon the good graces of others to stay alive." 

"You think that it doesn't equally apply to the daughters of princesses?" Odette queried as they reached the top of the rise. "The lives of knight-cadets, in some respects, are worth even less than the life of the meanest slave. Even they merit an inquiry from the coroners in the case of a suspicious deaths, while a knight-cadet does not." Whatever she was about to say next was cut abruptly short in her throat, as they joined the two older people, and saw what had held their interest so much. 

Just around the corner of the ledge, in a short of sheltered nook in the rock, was a neat, tidy, little pyramid of rotting severed heads.   
  
  


"No real damage," Morgan was the one who made the assessment, as Duncan was still preoccupied in making sure that Dhugal had no lasting effects from his surprise save a few bruises from landing on the hard rock. "I doubt you were actually knocked out of the saddle. More likely, simply slapped around the head a bit and then dragged down," Morgan continued his assessment. "But still fairly remarkable, considering the speed and strength that would have been required." He mused. 

"What on _earth_ were you two talking about?" Duncan scolded. 

"I don't remember…wait…it was something about me not understanding how women could be capable of bearing arms…and then I was on the ground." 

Morgan snorted, amused despite himself, "…so she proved that she, at least was more than capable of making herself noticed even without weapons." 

"I'd say. I feel like I got hit in the face with a plank," Dhugal complained, rubbing his jaw – even though Noor had actually hit him across the bridge of his nose. Now that the shock was wearing off, he was more than a little embarrassed that he had been caught so off his guard. 

"She was wearing gauntlets, son," Duncan finally relaxed. "It would be pretty close."   
  


"They don't _usually_ do this." Saro was frowning, but he was stepping rather warily around the gruesome little pile, trying not to come any nearer than was strictly necessary. 

"How long do you think?" Justinia was equally reluctant to get any closer. 

"Over a week. Well over. But certainly this season," he offered helpfully. 

Justinia rolled her eyes at her friend, knowing that the time frame he offered was hardly useful. "Odd. I wouldn't say that the terrain here was exactly conductive to a party as large as this…I wonder…Odette," she whirled around. "Can you get up and take a look around at the surrounds. See if there are traces leading here from more than one direction, and where they lead from." 

Odette nodded before blurring in place and turning into a hawk. 

Liam jumped out of the way in shock and barely bit back an oath.   
  
  
  


"They've found something," Yevgen pulled up abruptly as his horse stopped in place, without any direction from him. 

Kelson's grey Armand gave his counterpart a condescending look, but then surprised Kelson as the grey stallion took several startled steps backward, ears pinned to his head, to avoid the lightning-fast snap of teeth from Yevgen's taller bay gelding. Armand looked suitably shocked, and it took a great deal of prodding from Kelson before the grey resumed his place beside the bay, but not without giving the larger horse a distinctly wary glance. 

"Manners," the King of Sarain, said sternly, giving a tug on the reins, but since they appeared to be attached to the halter more for show than for any sort of control, it was largely a symbolic gesture. 

Everglade turned to his rider with a look that was pure mock innocence. "Behave," he reminded the gelding, who snorted. 

"A pyramid of heads," Yevgen informed Kelson, as well as Morgan, Duncan, Dhugal, Matyas, Rasoul and Kay as they joined the gridlock. With surprise, Kelson noted that less than a score remained to escort them, the rest having been efficiently dispersed by the princess. 

"Not the usual style, I take it?" Kay asked delicately. 

"Not for an insubstantial demonic figure that has no need of such symbols when it is perfectly able to carry out its plans without them, no," Yevgen told his sister. "Great. I _must_ ask his Majesty of Torenth whether he'd like these mountains back…they are _such_ a bother…" he muttered as he turned Everglade's head around and made to backtrack towards the site where the heads had been found.   
  


Radanae wasn't actually looking at Rose while she had the secretary's wrist in an iron grip. "That's enough for today, and this is too serious a matter to have distractions while we ponder it." She let go, and returned her attention to the map in front of them. 

"There are any number of passes into Sarain from Torenth, but none that would allow such a large number of people through at any one time without it being detected. I hope." The last was directed at Kalasin, who shook her head. 

Richenda raised an eyebrow at the Queen being so well versed in security details, but she was rapidly becoming aware that this Queen immersed herself into details of her realm that even the usual reigning sovereign Queen or Princess would not. 

While Radanae's 'special' abilities in most areas were less than spectacular, she was a powerful enough wildmage to communicate with animals she knew well – Luana especially – though, of course, she had nothing near the amount of Talent needed to change shape. Luana had kept her well informed of the developments, though, wisely, Radanae did not divulge her horse's amused commentaries on the exchanges between Odette and Liam.   
  
  


"We can't be here already!" the plaintive tone hid Lianne's surprise as they climbed the final rise to where the Summer Palace had been rebuilt. A forbidding fortress, the high walls rising up out of the stone as though they were more sheer cliffs, and taking up well-nigh the entire valley. As they passed through the first set of high walls, she could see that the Palace complex consisted of interconnected buildings, each built both for sturdy defence and refined elegance – this was, after all, a holiday home for the Saren Royals – and that there was an immense enclosed grassy space behind it, already filled with tents that could hold an army. 

"A legion only, Highness, and a specialist legion at that," Kelvar said, leaning close. Brunellus began to paw at the rocky ground and pull forwards, smelling former stablemates, and anticipating gossip. "Hush," the last was directed towards his horse. "You might be interested, Kel. Princess Berenice's personal forces are known to be incredibly formidable and multi-talented." he twisted in the saddle to address the woman riding at his other side. 

"Thanks, Kel," a smile cracked the Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan's visage, even though all she wanted was a long bath. She remembered the enormous bath complex of the Royal Palace in the Saren capital with wistful fondness. Whatever else she might have felt about the intricacies of diplomacy, it was a tad difficult to disapprove of relations with a people who took bathtime, from indoor plumbing to heated towel racks to endless arrays of soap, quite as seriously as the Imperials did. 

Watching her, Kelvar wondered if Keladry was aware that an irrational fondness for baths, considering their chosen careers, was just one other thing that she shared with the only other female knight in Tortall. 

"How was the trip?" Kelvar knew his sister well enough not to give her the satisfaction of seeing his surprise at her appearance. 

"Greetings, Highness, m'ladies, sirs," Radanae belatedly greeted the other members of the party. 

Brunellus pushed his nose under her hand, nearly knocking her off her feet. "No, your sister isn't here, I sent her off with Odette," 

All the destriers in the Gavrillian studs considered themselves siblings, even though Luana and Brunellus weren't actually related, being from two different breeding programs. Luana was a 'light' destrier, bred more for agility and speed, suitable for a lightly armed archer or lancer, while Brunellus was 'heavy', to carry the 'full kit' of a knight and be able to crush any opposition with sheer brute strength and weight. However, that was not to say that light destriers were not considerably stronger than most horses, and that heavy destriers were not faster than most. What they shared, of course, was the incredible intelligence and endurance that had made the Gavrillian stock so sought after – and why even endless streams of gold could not buy one if the stud managers and owners did not deem one worthy of such a horse. 

They were, of course, the original reasons that the Gavrillian family was so rich, even though the income from the yearly horse-sales was now only a tiny percentage of their wealth. 

"Odette?" Kelvar asked curiously, as they made their way into the main courtyard where grooms swarmed over the horses, taking them away to the stables. 

"Delamaran. Princess Giselle's elder girl," his sister confirmed, leading the way into the Palace. "Oh, by the way, you remember Rose in your year? She's here too." 

"Yes, I heard that she got the job with Kay. Good for her." 

"Thanks," Rose came to join them in the foyer. "Do you want to tidy up first, or do the meet and greet first?" 

"No need," Kalasin, forewarned of the arrivals, breezed in. 

Introductions were hastily performed, the Duchess Richenda not batting an eyelid as she was introduced to the Queen Dowager of Scanra/Princess Royal of Tortall, another female knight, and a stern-faced 'barbarian' K'mir clanswoman, among others such as scholars, mages and warriors.   
  
  


"No sign of blood wraith, but plenty of signs around the head thing," Justinia summed things up succinctly as the daytime groups trickled in and the night-time patrols trickled out, each armed with either a large number of torches or some very intrepid mages who could take care of themselves adequately even should they be surprised. 

"Luana's been giving me the outline," Radanae confirmed, running a currycomb over the mare's flanks. It was not that she distrusted the stable staff, or, indeed Odette to do the job (in fact, one of the best parts about finally being a knight was being able to order someone else to muck out her horses), but that simply being in the stables, engrossed in such a familiar task, served as a temporary respite from the challenges of the world. Here, with her best friend, they could put aside that they were rising stars of the Service and the Army, and just be themselves again, to be the same two girls who had commiserated so often in different stables, grooming ponies and later horses side by side. To be once again, the girl who could never get her overhand swings just right, and the one who could never remember the rules of rhetoric. Different times – not happier, not really – but simpler ones, with fewer cares. 

"It seems unconnected – but that conclusion just worried Yevgen more," 

"It should. He now has two big crises running around these mountains that he can't afford to get off them." 

Justinia made a non-committal noise as she rummaged in her grooming box for a mane comb. Uma's pale silvery mane and tail were almost as difficult to keep clean as Luana's creamy coat, but at least in the last few years, Luana had rarely been anywhere messier than a public riding trail on a muddy day. 

"Saro thinks that it's been going on for a while – the ones at the bottom of the pile are considerably older than the ones at the top." 

Radanae froze mid-brush, causing Luana to move restlessly. "Saro? Sarozi d'Arherindianius von Bresumarev?" 

"Why yes," Justinia looked a little surprised at her friend's reaction. "He was at my birthday party, remember? Is something wrong?" 

"Oh no, not really," Radanae resumed her brushing. "Just that I accidentally slept with him afterwards." 

Justinia blinked hard. Twice. "Was that you two in the fountain?" she asked suspiciously. "If so, I'm telling mother to change her water feature. I'll never look at it quite the same way again. 'Accidentally'? What did you do, trip over?" 

"Pretty much," Radanae took a critical step backwards to examine her handiwork. "And I took him home. Fountains sound like distinctly uncomfortable places. Anyway, I believe that it was Vescari Tarar and Leandor Niscraticig in there anyway. You know what _always_ happens when Aulan gets near the drinks." 

"And then? Hey, we couldn't keep our eyes on the sneaky little goat every minute of the party, you know." 

"What? Well, recall that neither of us was particularly sober, even without Aulan's assistance, and then…well, at any rate, the next morning, we had breakfast, and he left. Oh don't look like that, you've had people _far_ less suitable than him, and it's not as though he was a total stranger or anything. I did know him slightly before, as you are well aware." 

"Well…" Justinia exhaled audibly. "He's never mentioned anything of the kind…I thought he just got sick of the music and wandered off…and that you didn't appreciate the jolly military crowd." 

"I don't." Radanae cracked a small smile. "It's nothing. Sorry. Should have been obvious, him being in Kay's personal forces and all…should have known he'd be here." 

"Kay's 'personal force' these days is well over two legions. Standard legions," Justinia commiserated, working on a particularly stubborn knot. "She's good." She added wistfully. 

"So are you," Radanae said softly, as she finished up by buffing Luana's coat with a soft cloth. 

Justinia gave a little shrug as she did the same for Uma, and they left both horses to their suppers and company. Uma tolerated other destriers well enough, especially those who came from the same stud farm, but she was a total snob otherwise. They moved past wary stable staff, who had probably already been acquainted with the huge grey mare's teeth and temper, even though she had been there for so short a time. 

They were met by the Duke of Cassan as they made their way through the covered walkways that joined the stable-barracks complex with the Palace itself. 

"Good evening ladies," he swept a bow and gave them both his most charming smile. 

It wasn't returned. 

"I hope that today's events were not too _trying_ for you?" he was trying gamely. With so many young women on the ground, and evidently with fewer constraints on behaviour than the girls back home, he thought that he was bound to have a few successes. "A great shock, and not one that was _suitable_ for…" 

Dhugal was slightly taller than Radanae, but by no more than a few inches, and no-one could have been more surprised than he to find that he was pinned against the wall, those several inches above the ground, held there by a painful grip on the collar of his shirt. 

"Your Grace," Radanae was saying in most undiplomatic-tone, and sounding incredibly fed up. "I _have_ seen severed heads before. In fact, I've seen people _crucified_ before, which is infinitely worse. It's not really something that shocks me, or indeed, any other knight, a great deal. The title means almost exactly the same thing here as it does where you're from, is that clear?" 

Dhugal swallowed and nodded. While he had found, that first evening, that she could do serious damage with her tongue, he was now rapidly discovering that she could do equal damage physically too. 

"Furthermore, I hardly think that in the middle of a mountain range, with an all-powerful demon on the lose, and something else that enjoys decapitating people is the time to be distracted by inconsequentials. I don't think that your King would appreciate it, nor your father, and most certainly not any of us. Understood?" she let go of his collar and let the younger man slide to the ground before stepping over him and continuing on her way. 

Justinia waited a moment, first to wipe the smile off her face, and then to help Dhugal to his feet and check him for any lasting injuries. 

"No marks," she told him cheerfully, straightening his collar in a distinctly maternal fashion that emphasised that she was a good five or six inches taller than him. "Then again, she never does leave any. I've always envied her that. At any rate, I shall see you at dinner then, your Grace," with that, she flashed another smile, white teeth gleaming against her deep tan, and moved off after her friend. 

Dhugal stood in place for a moment, pondering his situation. Like the encounter with Noor earlier in the day, there were few physical signs of the altercation, apart from a few wrinkles on his clothes. There was no way that anyone was going to believe that he had just been quite effortlessly lifted off the ground and threatened by a very undiplomatic diplomat. He sighed, and started to walk towards the gardens. He soon caught a glimpse of King Liam, sitting with King Yevgen's young cousin, both engrossed in a conversation. They would certainly not appreciate a chaperone, especially since they were first into the open courtyard-dining room and had the entire area to themselves. 

Dhugal turned away, and walked down another corridor, before turning into an open door that led into a sort of airy conservatory, plainly designed for a quiet withdrawal from gatherings, where people could sit, talk or write – as evidenced by the few small desks placed discreetly around the room. 

One was occupied, and, as he made his way over, the young woman sitting there raised her head and gave him a level glance, hand paused over the paper she was industriously writing on. There were piles of correspondence, blank paper, ink, pens, and sealing way covering the entire surface of the table. He recognised her as the princess's secretary – though what use a secretary would be on what was a military exercise was beyond his comprehension. 

"Greetings, Lady?" he trailed off. 

"Dama Rosgrana Feuerin." She said curtly as he sat down on the chair at the other side of her desk. She gave him an exasperated look, and returned to her work. Dhugal attempted to read her flowing, economical hand upside down. 

_…Regretfully, I will not be able to attend your wedding due to a prior engagement…_

"Ah…have you worked for her Highness long?" 

"Just under a year," Rose didn't look up at him _…however I send my very best wishes for your future happiness…_

He placed a hand on a stack of blank parchment as he waited for her to finish the letter. "Are you a knight, too?" he asked. 

"Yes, of course. I think nearly everyone you've spoke to since you've arrived is." _….which I am sure my dear sister, the Empress, would also wish to convey to you on this most joyous occasion…_

She finished the letter, signed it 'Berenice', sealed it, and tossed it onto a trail of similarly marked envelopes. She gave Dhugal, who still had his hand on the stack of blank paper, a long look. 

He tried to give an encouraging smile, one that she returned. 

She placed her hand on his. 

Dhugal opened his mouth, as though to speak, just as she rather delicately lifted his hand as though it were something distasteful, dropped it, and removed a piece of blank paper. 

"Your Grace," she said levelly. "I am a very busy woman, and I'm sure that you're a very busy man. Let us clear two very important things up which will stop both of us wasting out time. On a professional note, I don't disclose anything even remotely of interest about her Highness. On a personal note, I don't do novices." With that, not even sparing the completely stunned Dhugal another glance, she returned to her work. 

_…to Senator Xie Venytas from the Princess Berenice, greetings and salutations…_

"Your Grace! There you are, dinner's just about to start!" Noor walked in. "Am I disturbing anything?" 

"No, not at all," Rose didn't even look up as she pondered how to phrase _'because I have no idea who you are, you brown-nosing sycophant'_ politely. 

"Will you be over for dinner?" Noor asked. 

"No, I've too much work to do. I'll go and get something from the kitchen later…" 

"Come, on, your Grace. Don't worry, I won't hit you again," 

Dhugal could see no option but to follow gracefully. 

"I heard the last part of your conversation, my lord," Noor said, once they were out of earshot. "and I've just come from speaking with Dama Radanae. Sir, in order to avoid embarrassing incidents like that in the future, would it be useful for me to inform you that when a female Imperial knight is desirous of a closer acquaintance, she makes it very very clear?" 

Dhugal didn't answer. 

Noor sighed. "Oh well, let's go through everyone you're likely to have met." She counted off each name on her fingers. "Rose – as you have just seen, doesn't like bellowing instructions, which is fair enough. Radanae – though I think she's marvellous - is a complete snob in that area. Justinia – will not go for someone shorter than her – bad for the back, I'm told. Lara – let's say she's had enough of people with similarities to her. Odette – _far _too young. Lizzie – she's old enough to be your mother, by R'Kassi standards. Not the Princess, either – you're the wrong sex at the moment." 

Dhugal gaped at her. 

"Not that you'd need to worry anyway, Lord Dhugal," Noor shook her head, "we're going to be far to busy for that sort of thing now, aren't we?" it wasn't really a question. "Your Grace, they'd really like you to focus on the task at hand. It's distracting, and for a few, mildly irritating – particularly as some of them can hear your thoughts through your shields. To clarify – if anyone wishes to have a dalliance with you, they'll make their invitation plain. If not, my lord – confine yourself to the dreams of the Princess Ekaterina, to the maidens of the Eleven Kingdoms who no doubt hold your interest, or even my cousins – I believe that they're trying to get Lady Amani and Princess Aisha flogged off this year. At least they probably won't try to drown you over a misunderstanding. I don't think that anyone in the Eleven Kingdoms could really interest a female knight." She shook her head, "if you want to avoid any more incidents like the ones today – and the ones you did face are the ones who do know something of Gwyneddi culture and customs, and were giving you a bit of leeway – treat any of the female knights and soldiers you meet as you'd treat the male. There are many with far shorter tempers than myself, Radanae or Rose." 

They were at the dining room now, and Dhugal noticed that the party had expanded markedly. His attention was drawn, however, despite Noor's none-too-subtle warnings, to two young women. The first he discounted – a tall, muscular girl with brown hair and hazel eyes, rather plain – but the second. She was seated between Queen Kalasin and a large, handsome young man Dhugal's own age, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the Imperial Envoy, who sat at his other side. The stranger was…stunning…there was no other word for it. Lustrous black hair, the same colour as the Queen's, superb bone structure, everything… 

"The delegation from Queen Kalasin's homeland arrived while we were out," Noor's amused tones filtered by his ear. "Would you like an introduction?"   


_Notes___

_Yep, Imperials have censorship – though they're not usually that obvious about it. Is there an absolutist government that doesn't? The reason why they're asking Richenda and not Matyas about Teymuranz (who, after all, is Matyas's brother) is because the papers have just arrived, but Matyas is not around, and Richenda is.___

_As a matter of interest, while most of the knights' horses are exceptional creatures, Luana, Brunellus, Nightwraith and Everglade really stand out, even in that company. Luana and Brunellus are the best products of the Gavrillian breeding programs for the respective years their riders graduated. Kay and Yevgen don't have Gavrillian destriers, generally regarded as the best in the Empire, because they graduated in the same year as Radanae. Since it's a given that if a child of the family is being knighted, they get the best, nobody wants to be put in that awkward position where everyone knows that children of the Imperial family aren't getting the best. Hence, Nightwraith is from the private Delmaran stud (which does produce excellent destriers in its own right, but since the herd they keep is smaller than the Gavrillians, they have a lot fewer to pick from), and Everglade from another breeder. There have been expressions of disappointment that Everglade is a gelding, and many curse the shortsighted stable foreman of his home stud for not seeing just how extraordinary the bay colt was.___

_Uma, Justinia's destrier, is a 'second-stringer' Gavrillian destrier – marked down because she has a truly foul temper, coupled with immense size and strength, and no-one except Justinia or a wildmage can handle her (Justinia has immense difficulty getting, and keeping, stable staff). Even so, she only belongs to Justinia because Radanae offered her friend a truly bargain-basement price for the mare (even the ones with faults are highly sought after) – who came with a promise that she would never be re-sold, and bred only with the consent of the manager of the Gavrillian stud. The family is notorious for wanting to keep the bloodline under firm control – hence, most of the sale-horses are geldings, mares come with strict guidelines on future breeding, and one will hardly ever see a Gavrillian stallion under saddle to anyone other than a family member or employee.___

_And no, neither Justinia nor Radanae liked their schooldays much. Gore doesn't shock Radanae, it just makes her sick. There's a difference.___

_Also, the other reason that the girls are pretty much picking on Dhugal with impunity is because they know the culture of the Eleven Kingdoms well enough to know that even Dhugal is not going to admit to anyone that he's been turned down, and beaten up, by so many women.___

_Rose signs all Kay's social mail. It doesn't matter, because Kay signs 'official' mail with 'Berenice Imperatine (her title)' and her 'personal' mail with 'Kay', so there are never issues as to whether Kay has really signed them or not – people who actually know her know that she didn't. In Bersone, that's the easier way to spot if a name-dropper is lying – no one ever calls Kay 'Berenice' by itself, and anyone who does has never met her. It's either 'Princess Berenice' or 'Kay'.___

_Oh, if people have issues with my spelling – yes, I use a spellchecker – but I prefer using the British spellings over the American, for two reasons. Firstly, I'm Australian, and we use the British spellings here, and secondly, as I've already said in some earlier notes, 'my' Imperials sound as though they went to Oxford or Cambridge, so in the interests of consistency, they write like it too._   
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	18. Urgency

_Exams are finally over! Well…for this year, anyway. Thank you to everyone who had a go at guessing which kids went with which parents – you all came pretty close. The answers are in Chapter 2 of 'Lillias'. Anyway, the timeline is now over at my homepage, at www.geocities.com/fhwon1/index, now with some events in the Tamora Pierce and Katherine Kurtz worlds incorporated if you want to know how they all fit together with the Empire. I have made a guess at some birth years, but I hope I'm not too far off. (If anyone has any idea how old Lianne is, please drop me a line. As far as I'm concerned, though, at this stage of the story, she's about 19 – which is OK, because Kelvar's only just turned 21. Kalasin's 22 at this stage, by the way.)_

Urgency 

She was the Princess Lianne of Tortall, Queen Dowager of Scanra, and Queen Kalasin's younger sister. Dhugal remembered to nod numbly in greeting, before dinner started. The table had been extended, and, if it were not for the surrounding circumstances might have seemed almost like a celebration. Each of the dignitaries was smoothly and efficiently introduced – mages, scholars, mountain experts, even a middle-aged K'mir woman who everyone at the table regarded with deep respect.   


"Quite a gathering," Prince Azim observed dryly as they returned to their wing. The Tortallans had been assigned to another set of guest rooms, and presumably the Imperials were housed in the 'family' wing or else camping with what troops were not scattered throughout the mountains. 

"You're displeased?" Richenda asked, sitting down on the couch, pulling the pins out of her hair. She no longer wore a veil, seeing as nobody else did, and it was just one more bother to take care of. 

"No, not at all." Azim answered his pupil smoothly. "It is simply that there are a number of highly _unexpected_ people in the party. The princess, for one." 

"You don't think…" Morgan looked incredulous, and shot a small glance in Kelson's general direction. 

"I highly, highly doubt it," Azim hastened to say. "We haven't any relations at all with any of the nations to the west of Sarain – and furthermore it appears that if they have any plans for the lady they lie with another young man." 

Dhugal remembered the man seated next to Princess Lianne. "Kelvar Gavrillian?" he ventured. 

"Yes. The Ambassador's younger brother, oddly enough," Azim nodded. "But that still does not explain why either of them are here." 

"Magic?" 

"Always possible." Azim conceded, then shook his head before turning to Dhugal. "Now my young lord, what was it that al-Rasoul's niece was so interested in communicating to you before dinner…hmm?" 

All eyes turned to Dhugal, who flushed as red as his hair. "Oh…nothing…" he stammered. 

Kelson gave his best friend a look of complete abject disbelief. 

Dhugal took a deep breath. "She was delivering threats." 

"From whom?" Duncan asked, looking ready to go out and do something most unpriestly. 

"The other female knights." The floor was becoming extremely interesting. It was a very nice floor, though, mosaic and inlaid in geometric designs. 

They were still looking at him. 

"They…ah…wanted me to keep focused on the task at hand, so to speak…and…ah…not question their…ah…abilities in the area…" the last few words were muttered indistinctly. 

"You've been _flirting_, haven't you, son?" Duncan looked amused and disapproving, all at once. 

"Well…I…tried to be friendly…" 

"…and no one wants to be friends. Good grief, they took exception to _you_? What would they have made of Conall?" Kelson got to his feet and paced a little, finding the humour in the situation. 

Morgan blinked slightly at Kelson's mention of his cousin's name – usually a painful point with him, as Conall was not only murderer and traitor, though that was bad enough, but had also married Rothana, who Kelson had once considered the love of his life. 

"Probably not much, Sire," Morgan ventured. "At best, he would have been ignored, at worst we might be continually finding him being held upside down by the ankles in a fountain, being very politely spoken to by a young lady, if the strength that al-Rasoul's niece demonstrated this day is anything to go by." 

To his continued surprise, Lord Rasoul's response to the statement was stifled laughter. "She has done that before, come to think of it. My sister writes that all the young men at her court become most _remarkably_ well mannered when Noor decides to visit." He stopped, then his eyes swept the room. "Where did my lord go?" 

"Laje said something about the baths," Matyas mused. "Tell me Rasoul, am I the only one to think that our young _padishah_ becomes more and more stubborn as each day passes?" he paused to take a cup of tea. "I sent attendants after him, of course," he added, clearly an afterthought.   
  
  
  


The baths were not quite finished, Liam saw. The frescos were only half-painted, and there was a neat pile of long metal pipes stacked against one wall, covered with a paint-splattered cloth. He supposed that the King of Sarain had better things to do than to extend his holiday home. Just as Liam probably had better things to do than to stand around staring at its exquisite artistry. While there were perfectly adequate washing facilities in the guest wing where they were lodged, after the day's events, he was in need of a bone-deep soak. He dismissed the servants that his uncle had sent trotting after him, needing privacy. 

The bathhouse was deserted, which he found astonishing, as there were lamps lit at regular intervals along the walls, augmenting what little moon and starlight filtered through the thick glass of the great curved wall-roof at the far side. From the conversations swirling around him on the trail, most of the troops had been waxing lyrical about the provision of proper baths, each declaring that they would rate a simple dip in the pool equal to a thousand medals of valour. Liam rather suspected that they were exaggerating, though, but he was pleased that the young soldiers seemed to accept him with little more than a close glance, and that due more to his age than his position as a foreign king. 

Odette might have had something to do with that, too, he thought, but then briskly turned his mind away from the inevitable track it was taking. It was not unexpected. He was fifteen, and on a throne. The Councillors had barely allowed him the time to learn their names before beginning their less-than-subtle hints about the need to 'secure the succession'. Sometimes, he felt that a greater number of portraits of various young women had been placed on the long malachite table in his state apartments than treaties and decrees put together. But Odette had shown nothing more than simple politeness, and perhaps friendship motivated by the fact of their closeness in age. Her cousins and their friends were a good ten years her senior, and acted accordingly. There was no sign that King Yevgen was pushing the match. Indeed, since the arrival of so many new participants at the quasi-formal dinner conversations, Odette had seemingly been banished. 

Which was a pity, because she would bring a much better alliance than all the princesses, countesses and ladies who had been bandied about before him would. 

He washed quickly in the first room, where there were a collection of tubs, each with hot-water urn, little brazier, cold running water and bowls of soap, before heading to the main chamber. The steam room was evidently not finished, which he deduced by the utter lack of so much as a single puff of steam. 

Set beneath a curved wall and half-roof of thick, bubbly glass that trapped the heat, the dark-tiled room was warm even despite the lateness of the hour. There was no mistaking that this was a royal residence, though, with the requisite security concerns. The glass was imbedded with what appeared to be steel mesh, with the spaces in between that let in light and warmth too small for any to reach through even should they break the glass. 

Despite the glass, though, the huge pool that dominated the room was not at all warm, though at least it did not have the chattering-iciness of the mountain streams from where the water came. Evidently the pipes so neatly readied were intended for some sort of heating arrangement, for it was more than obvious that unlike the baths in Beldour, the Saren Summer Palace was nowhere near a hot spring. Still, it was water, and here, in its stillness, he could think. 

"How's the water?" Liam gave a most unkingly yelp, tried to stand up, and discovered that it was a very deep pool. Treading water, he saw Odette standing at the edge of the pool, wrapped in a towel. His eyes went involuntarily to his own towel, lying just next to her feet, as he wondered how he could get out. 

"…er…nice…" he managed. "A bit cool." 

"Good," she said, and dropped the towel, before diving into the pool, sleek as an otter. She disappeared under the surface with barely a splash, leaving Liam to blink in the renewed silence. 

He thought he had just managed to compose himself when she surfaced not three feet away from him. "Marvellous!" she declared, shaking water from her short locks. 

Liam was perfectly aware that he was staring, but could not tear his eyes away even when she noticed. 

Odette frowned. "Liam, I can't _possibly_ have anything you've never seen before," she said reasonably, "and you can't possibly have anything _I've_ never seen before. Must you do that? I rather spoils a nice swim." 

"I'm…err…sorry," Liam muttered, shamefaced, not willing to admit that in the clearness of the water that he was seeing quite a lot of things he hadn't seen before – well, not that he could remember, at any rate. The fact that she was not at all flustered disturbed him more than he was comfortable with. And her declaration that he had nothing she hadn't seen before…at least now, he thought grimly, he was actually glad that the water was rather cold, as he struggled to think of something a little more appropriate to say.   
  
  


"I gather things have changed quite a bit since we were last having this private chat." Radanae had the cookies again, but this time they actually looked like cookies. They tasted better too, though she confessed that the secret this time was getting one of the cooks to bake them. 

"Rather." Lianne sighed. The rooms in the Summer Palace were rather smaller than the ones in the capital, and in shorter supply. In order to make sure that there was adequate space for all the mages and scholars, the rest of the Tortallan party had scattered – the few Imperials, like Kelvar, went to the large campsite, under the stern gaze of their princess and her lieutenants (Kay believed in the old adage that a good commander did not scorn to share accommodations of her troops – though she did have some luxuries that they didn't, of course), and Lianne and Keladry found themselves in the 'family wing' with Buri, Lizzie, Noor, Odette and Radanae. "I didn't know that Yevgen had so many girl-cousins," she tried to probe delicately. 

"There are _plenty_ more," Radanae replied dryly, as Jump snuck to the low table, took a cookie, and ate it on the rug. She didn't bother to stop him, but gave him a hard look. "You'll probably meet Odette tomorrow." 

"Why wasn't she at dinner?" Lianne pressed. 

"Because she's only thirteen. By proper etiquette, she's not supposed to be in attendance at formal events until she comes of age – and, for a knight-cadet, that's not until the Midsummer _after_ her eighteenth birthday – almost five years from now. We let her, that first evening she was here, simply because we could hardly have her eat in the nursery with Lillias." 

Lianne smiled a little at the memory of her adorable little niece. "But now?" she continued, wanting more information on her sister's in-laws. 

"She eats with Lara at the camp." Radanae said curtly. 

"Lara?" Lianne cocked her head. "I don't think we've met…" 

"No, and nor should you have," Radanae was rather sharper than her original intention. "She's Princess Berenice's aide, and the one that your sister was so needlessly concerned about last year." 

Lianne made a little 'O' with her mouth. "Ah." She conceded. 

"Lady Keladry, there are also two female knights exactly your age who are here at present with whom you might like to make an acquaintance." Radanae turned to the silent member of the trio in the sitting room. "Noor al-Jedin you saw at dinner. She's related to some of the members of the party from the north. Rose Feuerin is Kay's secretary – I'll introduce the two of you tomorrow." 

Kel nodded, both thanks and acceptance in one movement.   
  


"I never thought this place could ever be even remotely liveable," Buri declared. "But then again, Kally, I don't think anything you do with this place is going to surprise me anymore. You've done magnificently well – but you don't need me to tell you that." 

"Thank you. It means a lot, from you," Kally replied. It did. For Buri had always been there in the lives of the royal children, almost a second mother to them. 

"Sentiment," the K'mir shook her head. "But I mean it. There's something here now…something that was never here, even in the best of days before. Last year – well, in the capital, it was remarkable enough, but out here, in the highlands? Even five years ago, if it had been suggested that even these mountains would be under Saren hands in fact, not just name – I'd have laughed myself sick. This is something truly remarkable, Kalasin. I don't know how you did it, but whatever it was, I do believe that everyone will thank you for it, for centuries to come. Horse Lords, this old K'mir certainly does." 

"You're not old," Kalasin protested. 

Buri snorted. "I'm not all that much younger than your mother, I'll have you know. Old enough that Raoul and I haven't really much chance at children – though, admittedly, neither of us really wanted them before…" 

"How is Raoul, anyway?" Kalasin asked, memories of the big, friendly commander of the King's Own filtering through her mind. 

"Well. As well as that boy of yours is, I'd wager," there was just a hint of a most un-Buri-like lascivious grin. "Where is he, anyway?" Buri and Kalasin were alone in the royal suite. 

"Out." Kalasin inclined her head in the general direction of the door. "Lillias wanted some fresh air, or so he claimed." 

Buri just smiled. Despite everything else, it was good to know that Kally (her secret favourite among Thayet's five children) was happy.   
  


Lillias had an extremely powerful Talent. So far, it was a little secret between her father and herself, who felt that there was no need to worry her mother about little details like Lillias being able to talk to animals in her head before she could even begin to talk to humans out loud. Yevgen wondered how long it was going to be before she was literally flying around the nursery, and just how he was going to explain it to the nursery staff. They'd already been through four nurses in the few months that Lillias had made her entry into the world, with the promise of very many more before she was off to the Academy. 

"Far too soon to suit me at that, little one," he murmured as Lillias grabbed at his hair. His fair hair fascinated her, when it was readily apparent that hers was to be dark. He gently pried her loose, trying to banish the unwelcome thoughts that came with his daughter's eventual enrolment in the Academy in Bersone. 

It was necessary, he knew that – inherited offices – such as the Heads of the Houses, client Kings and Queens – were restricted to knights. It was an easy way to make sure of personalities, to make sure of some base level of competence…or else…he sighed. Yevgen, of all people knew just how dangerous the Academy was – and not just the continual string of injuries and accidents that inevitably resulted with such a vigorous physical training regime. No, Lillias would have dangers that few other cadets would face – especially being so close in age to her cousin, his elder sister's daughter and heir-presumptive, Ishtar. That Lillias wasn't in line for the Diadem would not placate those who felt that the very possibly of an attempt should be avoided – especially if the strength of her Talent become common knowledge. 

Fluttering wings caught both their attentions, and Lillias reached up and laughed delightedly as a sparrow flew towards them. One of Lady Keladry's flock, Yevgen surmised, as she flew around them, chattering all the while about inconsequential things. Yevgen couldn't eavesdrop on his daughter's half of the conversation, but from the context he guessed it had something to do about wind conditions. 

It was going to be a nightmare when she learned to talk like a human, he just knew it. Just another disaster in the road of successful parenting, though he gathered that it was something only a minority of fathers had to deal with. He only hoped that he was going to be around when she Changed the first time, if only to know her favoured shape (most wildmages had a favourite – his was wolf, Odette's was swan, Kay's panther – and he had little idea about anyone else. Ris never let anyone see her Change), and to teach her how to change back. 

So lost was he in such imaginings – which he very much hoped very few parents shared – that he almost ran right into another. 

It was Kelson, who was trailed by bodyguards. Yevgen gave a quick glance around him, but then remembered that he'd given his own guards the slip several corridors back. They _meant_ well, he knew, but they were just so bothersome. However, they were necessary – no use advertising that his skills as far as self-defence went were a lot better even than his exhibitions on the practice field went. 

The first few exchanges were easy enough. Formal introductions, rather uncreative compliments regarding Lillias, a continuation of the dinner conversation, discussions regarding the character of Teymuranz, and the likely perpetrator of the incident with the heads. They were just reaching that awkward point in the conversation, where either they would need to bid goodnight and part, or bring up other issues – like little cartographic discrepancies on maps, and ferocious K'mir mountain patrols, when the sound of breaking glass, and startled cries pierced the night air. 

With barely a pause to exchange glances, both of them hurried in the direction of the baths, bodyguards lumbering behind. On the way, Yevgen grabbed a passing Imperial officer who was heading in approximately the right direction, handed over Lillias, and ordered him to take the baby back to the royal apartments to Kalasin, and that no harm _whatsoever_ was to come to the little princess, if the officer valued his continued well-being and existence in the present world. 

Lieutenant d'Arherindianius von Bresumarev snorted a little, before carefully adjusting his burden and making his way down the corridor as quickly as he dared.   
  


There was a knock at the door. "Enter," Radanae called, thinking it either a servant or perhaps Justinia wanting a chat. 

It was certainly not who she expected. 

"…er…Hi…" Saro held up the little bundle in his arms. "I'm supposed to take her back to the Queen…" 

"Where's Yevgen?" Lianne asked, getting up, knowing that her brother-in-law would not usually just hand his daughter off to the nearest messenger on a whim. 

"In the baths, I assume," Saro answered, handing Lillias to her aunt. "There's just been an … _incident_…there. I was just coming to inform the Queen anyway, when the King managed to bail me up." 

"What's happened?" Radanae asked, as they left her room and walked briskly to the royal suite, a little further down the hall. The thought of Saro and her bedroom together was not a good one – mainly because she couldn't actually remember much of what had happened the last time the two had been in the same sentence. 

"The baths…" Saro said shortly, "one of the _creatures_ tried to break through the glass…and you know that they've got the mesh there…" 

Radanae winced. 

"Yes, exactly." He nodded. "So…no lasting effects. Just a lot of mess…and some gore…and two rather _put out_ teenagers." There was a ghost of a smile. 

"_No_." Radanae looked at him in disbelief. 

"Oh, I doubt it actually came to _that_." Saro hastened to inform her. "But all the same, if I remember my studies of the northerners clearly, the young King Liam has a bit of explaining to do to his friends…"   


Liam was in no fit state to explain _anything_. The King of Torenth might have been a very promising ruler, just and compassionate and all that goes with it, and might have been perfectly capable of ordering relatives impaled, but being able to speak clearly several minutes after an animated corpse had tried to crash through a thick glass roof above his head while he was floundering around a tepid pool with a pretty girl was somewhat beyond his capabilities. Particularly when both he and said pretty girl were stark naked. 

Odette was in much better condition than he. After a few startled sounds, and frenetic splashing towards the edge of the pool, she scrambled out and then reached to help him from the water, just as the shards of glass, mixed with things rather less pleasant, began to drop. Liam dared a look up, just in time to see the dark outline of a human on the roof, held there by the mesh. He had no idea how it had got there – it appeared to have been – thrown – for whatever force had placed it there was sufficient to break the thick glass. 

Help came quickly – the baths were near both the guest quarters and the tents of the Imperial officers. The disturbance must have made an almighty din, for the complex filled quickly, almost as quickly as more lights flared outside, and the sounds of investigation and shouting began outside. 

Odette had tossed him a towel just as he managed to stop hyperventilating. Rather dimly, he realised that his uncle Matyas had come to crouch by his side, to make sure that he was unhurt, while Odette was speaking to her cousin and Kelson, who had come in after the crowds. 

Liam looked up at the shape on the roof again. Other shapes had joined it, evidently to remove it from the glass. Someone made to simply pull it towards the building, as they were presumably standing on the portion of the roof not glassed, or leaning out of the window, when the shape suddenly flailed and came to life. 

Even through the glass, Liam heard the oath, spoken by a female voice and quite enough to strip the paint from the walls, before the thing was simply flung from the roof. Liam's eyes followed its path as it tumbled down the wall, to lie, crumpled on the ground. Someone darted in close to it. Liam did not look at what the gleaming knife was doing. He knew. 

Someone took a breath close to him. To his surprise, it was King Yevgen, looking past the vast expanse of water that was his almost-finished swimming pool, out through the ruined glass feature wall. "It seems," the King's voice skimmed the water, and echoed in every corner of the vast dark-tiled expanse, though Yevgen was not speaking loudly, "that we have less time than we thought. If they may come despite the torches in the night, it will not be long before they come in the day. You," he turned to the nearest officer. "Go and fetch my sister and her officers. Lieutenant d'Arherindianius von Bresumarev has already gone to inform my wife." 

"Yes, Highness," the woman bowed shortly and strode off, breaking into a run as soon as she left the tiled area and was once again on the stone walkway outside. 

"Majesties," his bow to Liam and Kelson was equally short, "it seems that we have much work to do tonight."   


_Okay, another poll. Who are your favourite character(s) so far, either original or shamelessly kidnapped? And no, the Imperials don't really have issues with nudity. It's just a lot warmer in most of the Empire than it is in Sarain or Tortall, so they wear more clothes when they're there. Since I couldn't make every single residence close to a hot spring, the swimming pool is presently heated with a passive solar system, and the next round of extensions will mean that it will be heated with the excess heat produced in the steam rooms. If you're curious as to why the Imperials address Yevgen as 'Highness' – an Imperial Prince ranks rather higher than a client king from the back of beyond – so they use his higher rank._   



	19. Preparations

Preparations

"It came in between two of the patrols," Kay said grimly, after everyone had hastily convened in a large room that was originally intended as an extension to the conservatory, "so neither of them saw any trace of it." 

There were splatters of blood on the princess's plain shirt, but nobody was quite game enough to inquire as to their source. 

"Pity." Her twin was contemplative as his attention was focused on the large table at the centre of the room, where a map from the library was laid in slightly dog-eared glory. 

Rather belatedly, the room, and the garden immediately adjacent to it, was brightly lit, so even the smallest detail of the maps they were studying was clear. 

"Is there any possibility that these creatures are associated with my uncle Teymuranz?" Liam was still dripping all over the floor, and his hastily donned clothes were damp, but he had recovered enough to be able to speak. 

"I do not know. Many strange things occur in these mountains. But whether these two events are connected or not is moot. It is in both our interests to rid ourselves of these creatures, and it is in both our interests to rid ourselves of the continual potential for trouble that your uncle holds. Forgive me, Liam, Matyas, but we most certainly do not wish to have Teymuranz causing disturbances on our borders." 

"That is perfectly understandable, Sir," Matyas tried to crack a smile, but in the seriousness of the situation, failed. It was understandable, given that his county of Komnene, which he considered his home even though he now also ruled the larger, richer Arjenol, was so close to the mountains. Though, come to think of it, Arjenol was not far either, being only a little further north and east of the dividing mountain range. 

"What I find intriguing," Radanae stood up, "is how Teymuranz was able either ally himself to a blood mage of such power, or learn the techniques himself." 

Silence settled on the room. 

"Oh come _on_," she sounded exasperated. "We're all reasonably intelligent people here. Surely it must have occurred to _someone_ else. Teymuranz, as we know," she looked at their northern visitors, "was a powerful Deryni…that's a bit like the Gift, only not so," she turned to explain to the Tortallans and other visitors from the west. "This is getting confusing. I only wish we had more time for a cultural exchange," she swayed from the topic a little, but everyone was getting used to the fact that the diplomat often had several threads of thought going at once, usually at breakneck speed, and that there were occasional traffic tangles. 

"But the Deryni talents don't work the same way," Noor protested, earning a quizzical look from her uncle. "Well, they don't!" she insisted. 

"That's not to say that they _can't_ though," Kelvar objected, drawing glances. "Lack of evidence isn't the same thing as negative evidence." 

"Whatever it is, ladies and gentlemen," Kay brought the meeting to order once more, eager to set plans in motion, or at least to leave and change her shirt, "we have a blood mage. We have an unpleasant member of the family, who, I gather is crafty, clever and has the most annoying habit of being able to shoot lighting bolts out his fingers." Liam started at the matter-of-fact disclosure of her knowledge of the occurrences of his kingdom, but then had to sternly remind himself that it had been a futile exercise to even attempt to conceal his uncle's betrayal. "We have something previously unknown killing large numbers of people over a extended period of time, and leaving their heads in full view, but disposing of their bodies in some place still a mystery. We do not know if they are connected, gentles all, but they must all be dealt with, and soon." She cast her gaze around the table. 

Even the experienced general in Morgan, the battle hardened warriors in Buri, in Kelson, Dhugal and Duncan could feel the air of command emulating from the young woman. There was no mistaking just why she was so adored by her troops, why young officers fought tooth and nail for a position in her command tent, even if it was just pouring the tea. No mistaking just why the Empress was taking the risk of leaving such a talented younger sister and potential rival in a position of command, when she would one day be the truly great general that Rislyn needed and yet herself was not. 

"If Clansman Buran can be so kind as to lend us some ponies, my squad is ready to begin with the cave complex, dama," Kalasin only barely stopped herself from whirling around at the sound of Felara Eriel's voice. True, the other woman had saved her life, and Kally had never expected that Yevgen would have been completely innocent, so to speak, before meeting her, but simply knowing that someone else – someone else quite as exquisitely beautiful as Lara, knew him just as intimately as she did made her a touch uneasy. Not that anyone had made it any more so – quite the opposite – none of the Imperials intentionally mentioned Lara within her hearing, and Lara herself made very sure that she was not in the same vicinity as either Yevgen or Kally. "We spent last year in the caves on my property in Kysard, and we will be as ready as most." 

"I hardly think that recreational caving half a continent away are adequate training," Kay was evidently, despite expectations and appearances, quite a conservative commander, more concerned with the preservation of her resources, whether troops, horses, supplies or equipment, than grand, useless heroics for a poet's tales. 

"There are no maps for the cave complexes, are there?" Lara challenged. "Then we're as prepared as we'll ever be, Highness. This needs to be done, and right now, we've no choice but to do it." Whatever else she was, Lara was very practical. 

Kay nodded tightly, clearly displeased. "I don't suppose anyone else has cave specialists?" she asked, sounding hopeful, but not appearing especially downtrodden when the other visitors, and her brother, admitted that cave specialists were not exactly the people they kept lying around a holiday home, or indeed, tended to take on expeditions. 

"Well then," the princess to a deep breath. "We had best all get to work."   
  
  


Despite their strenuous protestations, both singly, and, surprisingly enough, together, both Liam and Odette were ordered to stay behind. In the case of the former, Kelson had been forced to add his voice as former-overlord (whatever weight that brought) to the avuncular concerns of Rasoul and Matyas. Evidently, the stubbornness of the young king was becoming well known enough in Torenth that Rasoul decided to stay behind too. It would be a far harder, and a far more desperate task that the ride that morning, and that had been draining enough for those, like Duncan McLain, were more used these days to desk and table than the battle-lines. So the Bishop stayed behind, and of those from the Eleven Kingdoms, only Kelson, Dhugal, Morgan, Matyas and Azim would accompany this hasty, but vital quest. 

One that would decide the fate of three great worlds. 

One that was distinctly less glamorous than the stuff of tales and legends.   
  


"Kalasin, I want you to promise me that if this goes badly, you and Lillias won't stay here. Odette will build a Gate – she's strong enough for that, which is why she is here – I want both of you as far away from here as possible. Please. Take as many people from here away with you as Odette can handle, but please, for all the Gods and Goddess' sakes, get out of here, and get Lillias out of here." Yevgen was looking at her with a distinctly irresistible look as he was hastily shrugging into a suit of light mountain armour, with unmistakable K'miri influences in the lacquered arm, shoulder and thigh guards, even though they were coloured a deep blue and dull grey that no K'mir would ever claim. Callum buckled on the shoulder-guards as Yevgen handled his own wrist-guards, long, unexpectedly artistic fingers weaving the strong silk laces with considerable dexterity. 

He caught her glance, and tried to force a smile as she finished and pulled on a pair of soft gloves. "Finally, all those years of harp practice actually pay off. But please, Kally, if anything happens get Lillias out. Both of you get out. Notwithstanding your most stellar abilities, there will be nothing further than can be done here." 

Before the baby, Kally would have told him exactly what she thought about monarchs who abandoned their people, even to horrors half as terrible as the ones they were facing now. But that was before. Now, with someone so tiny, so defenceless who was so utterly reliant upon them, she could only nod grimly. Behind her, in a room more easily defensible than their exquisite private quarters (relatively more defensible, that is. Most rooms in their residences could have been quite confidently defended by a blind sloth with three legs), there were the inevitable squabbles and partings, and admonitions for people not to do stupid things, like get themselves killed. 

"Right, if we're all done in here, the faster we get out, the faster we get back," familiar cut-glass articulation penetrated. 

Everyone turned to her. 

"Well, maybe not," Radanae conceded, but not looking at all abashed. "But really, it's nearly dawn, and we want to make the most of the day – on the off chance that light may still be somewhat of an advantage to us. At any rate, it's in all our interests to have this matter resolved as quickly as is practicable." She too, was wearing hybrid armour – a fine mail shirt, the individual rings so small that they were barely discernible, and so well-made that it represented a year of a master-craftsman's life, with K'miri parts evidently found in the garrison armoury – standard issue. They fitted her, much to Kalasin's surprise – but then again, she, like many other Imperials, had become accustomed to thinking of Radanae as 'short', whereas, in actual fact, the older woman was about the same height as most of their garrison soldiers. Imperial knights tended to be fairly large by definition. Even Buri's Raoul, Knight Commander of the King's Own, wouldn't be at all out of place among them – in fact, for a male knight, he would only be of about average height, with many far taller.   
  


"Lianne, this may not be the best time to ask, but if…when all this is concluded, would you be interested in seeing some more of the world east of the Roof?" Kelvar was carefully not making eye contract as he supervised one of the farriers changing Brunellus' shoes. While the smaller, sure-footed K'mir ponies that were preferred by the scouts (and borrowed by the advance caving party) had no problems with the rough ground, the massive destriers of the knights, intelligent and agile as they were, needed every single bit of technological assistance available. 

Despite the sleepless night, and the admonition that she, like it or not, had to stay behind in the Palace with Kalasin and the other non-combatants, the princess of Tortall didn't look particularly downbeat. In fact, she looked…well, not excited, precisely, but whatever was one step up from merely being interested. Well, Kelvar supposed that even the most recent events were distinctly memorable even with the year the Princess Lianne had just had. A dead fiancé and a murdered husband, both noteworthy enough in their own way, simply didn't compare with a crazed blood-demon, a traitorous mage, and something with an enthusiasm for anatomical sculpture. "The western provinces are very nice this time of year – and, of course, Bersone. My parents have a house there…as does my sister…they'd be glad of visitors." 

Even to his surprise, Lianne's eyes lit up as she said, "Yes."   
  


"Of course, I take it they won't be staying at your parents' mansion, your house, or the Palace apartment?" Yevgen said quietly to Radanae as they pondered a tactful time to enter the stables and get their horses. 

"No," Radanae shook her head. "Or Rory's new place, for that matter. Never mind. Kel's apartment has a wonderful view of the recreational harbour and Pearlfisher's Bay…" 

"…and no guest bedrooms?" Yevgen raised an eyebrow, knowing full well what the traditional city bachelor pad for a younger child of an aristocratic family looked like. 

"That's right. No guest bedrooms."   


A tactful pause in the conversation came shortly after. Then, as there were no more preparations to be done, in the hazy pre-dawn of a Torenthi-Saren mountain range, they rode out to save the world. 

  
_P.S. I am perfectly aware that Yevgen's grammar is all over the place when he's speaking with Kally. It's deliberate on my part, not his.___

_Since I can think of no way to incorporate this point into the story without it being waffle, the property mentioned by Lara (with the caves) is part of the Imperial version of a National Park system. Basically, since the Empire is so large, there are a lot of sites that have some sort of historical, cultural or environmental significance. The major historical and cultural sites tend to come under the direct control of the Diadem, but Empresses as fiscally…obsessed as Vanaria and Rislyn don't particularly appreciate the financial burden of endangered species' habitats or rock formations, no matter how pretty they are, even though they recognise the importance of them. Hence, a lot of the minor sites, especially the environmental ones, are sold into private hands, but with restrictive covenants on future development, land use, etc. The new owners also have to make the property available to the University scholars for further study, and also to the Academy for educational purposes. With these constraints in place, there is necessarily a fairly small market for the land – and ownership of such properties is largely a status symbol (i.e., I'm so rich I can buy a huge tract of land and not do anything with it except look at the fluffy birds I'm not allowed to kill, and the pretty flowers I'm not allowed to pick) – though many knightly families buy them for younger children to use as a retreat (low-level building, such as a cottage, is usually permitted), as they tend to be cheaper than traditional properties that can be used for farming, etc._   
__


	20. Into the Abyss

Into the Abyss

_I do apologise in advance if the next few chapters seem to be few and far between, due to serious lack of typing time. No, I do not have writers' block, I have a pretty good idea how this whole, decades-long saga will go (though I don't rule out some last-minute twists), and there are plenty of stories to go after this, but real life will make its unwelcome intrusion once again as I embark upon my summer clerkships. For people who haven't read my biography, I'm currently at law school (we can start straight after high school down here, so no, I'm not as old as people seem to think, I was still a teenager when I wrote Kalasin's betrothal, and if I was American, I would only have been allowed to start drinking a couple of weeks ago), and I need to get out and get some practical experience before I head out into the real world for good._   
  


In the misty pre-dawn, the harsh mountains and crags of the K'mir seemed to hover above the hazy cloud, at once detached from, and yet dominating the sparse patches of the green valleys and the terraced fields of the now-deserted villages and hamlets. Grey and brown and black, the sheer solid sheets of rock that all but blocked out the sky, drawing in the dim light, shrouded in wisps of white.   
  


It was really very pretty from a distance. The problem was, Odette Delmaran really didn't particularly want to be at a distance. 

"_Adults_," the single word was laden with disgust far thicker than the opaque mountain fog. "First they tell me to come because I'll be of some use, and what do they do? They tell me to stay behind and look after the baby." 

"No one's even mentioned that you have anything to do with Princess Lillias," Liam, being the generally honest boy he was, felt obligated to point out. "I'm legally an adult and no one had any qualms about leaving me behind." 

The two teenagers were leaning against one of the long, narrow windows that lined a corridor well within bellowing distance of the suite of 'safe rooms' where the more 'important' non-combatants were staying. Neither of them wanted to be around to hear the disconcerted mutterings of the newly arrived Tortallan scholars, who were already testy from the hard journey, nor their quasi-civilised 'discussions' with their Imperial, Saren and Eleven Kingdom fellow guests, and especially not the inevitable result when Queen Kalasin tired of them. This was evidently an attitude shared by Princess Berenice's private secretary, as Liam and Odette watched Rose leave the suite bare minutes after them and set off with offended step in the opposite direction down the corridor to a small hidden study, sword and account books in hand, but, like the teenagers, careful to stay within earshot of the others. 

"Yes, but even north, being legally an adult is different from being functionally one," Odette refuted. "I mean, I know that you're officially of age at fourteen in the Eleven Kingdoms, but most people – present company excepted – still aren't expected to _be_ adults until later." She stretched out her arms, though she was unwilling to admit that the stiffness had anything to do with the sleepless night. Her sleeves rode up to expose a slightly inexpert henna tracery of galloping horses on her left forearm, the colour somehow less intense than the similar henna on her midriff, which Liam remembered with extraordinary clarity. She caught him looking at it, and rolled her sleeve up further to show the full extent of the pattern. "My roommate and I were bored one evening…well, not bored exactly, we simply did not wish to do our rhetoric homework, so we were procrastinating – then we decided to paint designs on each other." She looked down at the horses. "Renaté-Aemilia always did have a bit of an equine obsession." Then she smiled. "Luckily we were only doing them on each others' arms. It wasn't until I got this one done," she motioned to her midsection, now covered by a plain cotton shirt, "that I actually knew what all the placings meant." 

"Placings?" Liam was glad that she was erudite. He certainly wasn't feeling particularly articulate. 

"Apparently because they're so popular – and easier to remove than tattoos, might I add – they add a bit of interest to the mating game, so to speak. Left collarbone means you're free and after a man. Right collarbone means you're free and after a woman." She touched hers as she spoke in emphasis. "Both mean that you're not particularly fussed, verticals down the left mean that you're in an open relationship and want a woman to join in. Right verticals, ditto, but for a man. A circle high on the chest means that you're very happy in your present relationship and don't want anyone, but you like drawing on yourself. Verticals down the middle mean you're not in a relationship and don't want to be in one." 

"What does the one you have mean? The horizontal design," Liam made a movement across his own belly. 

Odette paused for a second. "It means that I…ah," she coughed delicately, "that I haven't started looking for anyone yet."   
  


"They're just about to go in," Kay reported shortly as Nightwraith muscled his way in between Everglade and Armand. Neither King even thought to raise an objection, Yevgen because he knew his sister so well, and Kelson because even the extraordinary last few days had not completely overridden his ingrained chivalric good manners towards ladies. Even, or, more accurately, especially towards ladies of impeccable birth and breeding who were quite possibly handier with sharp metal objects than he was.   
  
Hoofbeats on the stone behind them heralded the approach of two other horses. "We have good news, and we have bad news." Justinia was unusually verbose. 

"Bad news first," Kay said automatically. 

"One, it appears that you've a bandit gang in these mountains," Saro addressed Yevgen, "and they've been getting rid of all the other bandits in the area for fun – they've been clever enough not to attack settlements on this side of the border, so they've mainly taken to robbing other bandits who work farther afield, but use the mountains as a base. However, I use the term 'bandits' advisedly. They would call themselves Torenthi patriots, loyal to the Lord Teymuranz." 

"So what's the good news?" Kay asked impatiently. 

Saro looked at her with wide, mock-innocent eyes. "That _is_ the good news. Instead of having three discrete problems here, it's only two." 

Kay gave him a dirty look that needed no translation. "How did you get this?" 

Justinia shrugged. "We caught one. Have you noticed that some people like the sound of their own voices?" 

"Justinia…" the word was a growl. 

"We sent him back to the Palace." The tall knight told her superior, "we have neither the leisure nor the equipment to discuss the matter with him further at this point." 

Dhugal felt cold fingers run down his spine at the calm, professional tone.   
  
  


In the darkness, something waited. In the gloom, eyes gleamed, and grasping fingers twitched. In the light, the first squad of the Princess Berenice's cave specialists, lead by her aide Felara Eriel, prepared to descend into the gaping maul, to do battle with an unimaginable foe. 

Something like that anyway. For Radanae Gavrillian, left to mind the ponies, and, if necessary, set off explosives to collapse the caves, it seemed an unnecessarily maudlin atmosphere, as around her people adjusted caving gear, checked the glowing orbs that were to be affixed to their helmets for light, and generally gritted their teeth for the task ahead. 

"A pity we can't just detonate right here and now," Lara said beside Radanae, fastening on kneepads. "But if we do so, we'll never know just how many are in there, how they started, how they work, and just how Teymuranz or whatever-his-name-is is in involved in all this," she tilted her head slightly to Radanae's raised eyebrows. "One of the advantages of that little winter surprise is some very hasty advanced training. At the Academy, they had no idea, as you're well aware, that I could communicate over distance, because everyone who can is either blatantly obvious or an Imperial. Since I wasn't the former, they didn't bother extending themselves in that regard. At any rate, Uma's been keeping me up to date, much as she has Luana, and hence, you." 

"Interesting that they only caught one now," Radanae mused as she carefully toed the complex web of flammable cord that linked the precisely-placed explosives at the entrance of the cave to the large bundle that would have to be kicked into the mouth of the cavern itself if… 

Lara shrugged. "Practicalities. You didn't spend that much time out in the field, and you've not been in a particularly difficult province, militaristically speaking. One supposes that even with Yevgen's abilities as a ruler, he's not going to be particularly fussed at low-level banditry if it doesn't spread, nor the machinations of a foreign pretender if he is no threat to Sarain itself, especially since relations with the north are very much at the embryonic stage." 

"True enough." 

"You can talk politics later," Lizzie snapped at the two younger women as she came up to join them. Both looked at the not-technically-princess in surprise. 

"I thought you hated caves." Lara said, at last. 

"I do. About as much as my cousin hates water." There was no question which cousin she meant. Both the Empress and the Heir were enthusiastic patrons, and, if time permitted, competitors, in the traditional Delmaran pursuit of sailing. It was only the lone male presence in the family who completely loathed the sport – though it was not entirely a matter of preference. 

Radanae felt that she could hardly talk. While the Gavrillians were supposedly meant to be avid chariot-racers, and owned a team, she herself had no particular interest in the Wolfheads. They were only in the middle of the ladder after all, a long way from their glory days of centuries past, when chariots had been a vital part of the Imperial military machine. However, when the chariots were phased out, so too was the Gavrillian breeding program as far as chariot horses went, and it was then that they concentrated on destriers and cavalry remounts. The Gavrillian studs, ever practical, turned out respectable horses for their teams – for pride would not permit them otherwise – but they were in no way in the same league as the famed destriers, nor, more to the point, to the chariot horses of the top teams, sourced from specialised, low-margin, low-profit (comparatively) studs. 

Still, out of loyalty to her friend, she felt obligated to proffer a correction. "He doesn't mind being in water, it's only when he's on it that it's a problem." 

Lizzie made a gesture that indicated that she wasn't particularly interested in semantics. "Well then," she barked impatiently. "Ready?" 

There was no audible answer, but the professionals began to carefully make their way in. 

"You have it all, then," Lara turned to her friend before going in. "We'll keep in contact for as long as we can. Lizzie can relay through the horses easier than I, but we've a few others who can do it. If you hear nothing for an hour…set this off at sunset and get out of here, unless you hear otherwise from Kay…" 

"…who is blocking all the other exits," Radanae finished. She paused, looking around her, at the barren landscape, at the grim-faced men and women who were about to face the stuff of nightmares. Her nightmares, if she wanted to admit it, which she didn't. 

"Strength and honour," Lara said softly, snapping her fingers so that a tiny glowing ball of flame condensed in her palm. She was testing. 

"Strength and honour," Radanae repeated, even though she would have usually felt that the old saying was hopelessly outdated. It seemed fitting just now, when what they were about to do was straight out of a very bad epic. "I'll see you in a bit," she said optimistically. 

Lara's raised eyebrow said all that needed to be said about her opinion of Radanae's departure from her usual cynicism.   
  


"Nothing." Lianne was visibly frustrated as she peered into the mirror. "It's probably simply too dark in there – I always was hopeless at night-scrying anyway." 

"Don't worry," Kay comforted, even though it was clear that she had been, uncharacteristically enough, excited about the prospect of being able to magically 'see around corners' so to speak, and so more than a tad disappointed at the failure of Lianne's enthusiastic offer. 

The Tortallan princess was the only one who was not on edge. Ever since the first messages had come that the advance caving party had entered the most promising-looking cave, the one nearest to where the heads, and the creature had been found, the tension around the rest of them had been palatable. 

"Do you truly think that Teymuranz might be involved in this?" Kelson asked his counterpart quietly. They stood a little distance away from the princesses, who were both bent over a little hollow in the rock that had filled with water. The scrying had been at Lianne's suggestion – it was not a technique used very much in the Empire, and certainly not for an unknown target. Dhugal and Matyas were watching the procedure with interest – Dhugal's avid, Matyas's professional. Kelvar Gavrillian stood nearest to the cave mouth itself, hair-triggered and seemingly ready to shift effortlessly into a fighting stance at the merest suggestion of danger. Others – Kelson only knew the names of the tall black woman – Justinia, and the man they called 'Saro' – who, though apparently a commoner, was treated by the knights as one of them – stood a little way away, scanning the cliffs above and below for unexpected arrivals. All looked grimly ready for anything – and from events so far, Kelson knew that they would all have to be. 

"I know not," Yevgen shook his head slightly, but Kelson could see the other man's eyes flicker slightly towards the cave, and towards the overhanging cliffs. It was apparent that the King of Sarain wasn't quite as calm as the image he tried so hard to portray. There was a measuring glance at Matyas. "Frankly, it's academic. Both Lord Teymuranz and this problem are issues that require our most urgent attention." 

Kelson blinked at the bureaucratic understatement from a man dressed like a 'barbarian' K'mir warrior and armed to the teeth. Then again, he should not have been surprised – how many times had he managed to astound people whose initial impressions of him – whether callow boy, bloodthirsty oppressor, dangerous heretic or maudlin lover? He was not the only ruler of a mighty land with complexity and depth – and with young Liam governing the lands between his and Yevgen's, Kelson anticipated that the next few years and decades with the three of them on their respective thrones would be the among the most interesting in history.   


_The reason Yevgen hates watercraft is amply explained in 'Kalasin's Betrothal' and 'Queen Kalasin'. He gets seasick. Very seasick. Enough to make Alanna's problem look like a minor inconvenience. The origin of that, and Radanae's rather unknightly problem with gore, will eventually be in the 'Memoirs'. Radanae's idea of 'low profit' isn't quite the same as most people's, by the way, just like her definition of a 'little money' isn't quite the same as that of most people. Chariot racing is a very lucrative business, but for the Gavrillian kids, it's just a hobby.___

_If you're curious, 'Uma' is Japanese for 'horse'. I ran out of creativity, and it sounded like something the no-nonsense Justinia would name her horse._   



	21. Resolution Part the First

_I despise writing battle scenes. Have you noticed?_

Resolution. Part the first. 

  


Darkness. Utter darkness. Thick as river silt, and almost as heavy, it clung to them, grasping, slowing… 

"Of _course_ it's dark, we're in a cave!" Lara said shortly as the last vestiges of sunlight disappeared. Now, their only light came from the little glowing orbs affixed to the front of their helmets – which provided only the barest illumination – and those who could generate light magically. Those they were using sparingly. It had been so long since there had been any significant study of blood magic and its associated creatures – so long ago that the times that they had roamed had been those teaming with magic – that it had not been deemed terribly wise to use more magical power than was strictly necessary. 

"I never was overfond of these things," Lizzie muttered, placing her feet carefully on the broken rock of the cavern floor. 

Lara's look of sheer exasperation was masked in the gloom. "Let me think. We are in an unmapped cave with hardly any light. We are tracing something that sucks life out of people, bandits that leave heads lying around in a most untidy fashion, and a bothersome royal pretender who can shoot lightning out of his fingertips. This is not a pleasure-trip. Now come on. The sooner we work out what's going on the sooner we can work out where the exit is." 

A roar of rage sounded ahead, and the walls glowed red momentarily. 

"Right, that's torn it," Lizzie griped, making a gesture that lit up the surrounding area. Swords and miscellaneous sharp pointy things out, boys and girls. It's time to play."   
  
  
  


It was the faint trembling, far below the earth that alerted them first. Kelson, not knowing the signs, thought nothing of it at first, and it was the fast, efficient movements of Dhugal, Berenice and Yevgen in herding them further down the mountain that gave him any hint that anything was untoward. 

Well, except for blood mages, demons, and assorted unpleasantness, that is. 

So it was that they were at a comparatively safe distance away when the very cave openings appeared to collapse upon themselves, sealing whatever secrets they might contain far inside forever.   
  


When they made their way back to the main cave mouth, the first thing that Kelson noticed was that Princess Berenice scanned the many collapsed bodies lying around, and made what looked suspiciously like a prayer of relief and thanksgiving. 

For each and every one of those bodies, though dusty, slightly battered, bruised, and even burned, was breathing – and in most, cases, swearing in language that would have made a dockhand blush. Kelson was quite sure that he didn't know even half the words. There were also, as far as Kelson could see, approximately the same number of said swearing, injured people around as Kay had indicated were cave specialists. 

"It was rather a non-event, really," Yelizabeta Delmaran looked slightly more human with dust on her face and an evil-smelling salve on her arm – but only slightly. Her hair was still perfectly in place, and she still moved with otherworldly grace. "The blood mage himself – it _was_ a him, as far as we could see – probably lost control a few days ago. Pity we couldn't have Saro or Justinia in there for a more definite determination, but between his night-blindness and her claustrophobia they wouldn't have been at all comfortable in there." 

"If he lost control, what on earth are you all still doing here?" Kay was caught between gratitude for having all her precious specialists still relatively intact, and rampant curiosity as to how they could all be so. 

"Because, little cousin," Lizzie resumed after grimacing as Radanae wiped off the salve, poured something clear and quite strong-smelling on the burns, and produced a bandage. "Out friend the mage lost control while the creature was still relatively weak. Not a mistake you, or I, or most of us would make even were we inclined towards such things. As a result, its growth has been somewhat less focused, shall we say, than if it were still under the guide of a host and summoner." She wrinkled her longish, finely shaped nose. "What _is_ that stuff?" she complained to Radanae. It smells like the bathroom back at the Academy, and stings like the dickens." 

"It's distilled witchazel with lavender, lemon and tea-tree oil," the diplomat muttered as she rummaged in a first-aid bag for a bandage-clip. "It _is_ the same smell as the bathroom back at the Academy. It works on burns almost as well as it does on spots." 

Lizzie sniffed disdainfully, quite above such adolescent reminiscing, but had no qualms about holding her arm out for the bandage to be tightened. "So, as I say, it was strong enough to be a bother in that it was running out and killing people and all – or rather, strong enough to make its servants go out and kill people and all – but not quite strong enough to work out what to do in the face of a concerted adversary, as opposed to one surprised while they were taking a leak." 

"So what happened?" Yevgen, like a contentious host, had just made his rounds of the other specialists (though leaving one person, after a very brief exchange, to Justinia and Kay) to make sure that no-one required express medical attention and a quick litter trip back to the Palace infirmary. 

"What one suppose happened," Lizzie shook her arm, then nodded satisfaction at the bandage. Radanae started clearing up with a slightly injured expression, as though somewhat affronted that Lizzie would think any work she did was substandard. Somewhat irrelevantly, Kelson noticed that she had dark-stained fingers and black dust under her fingernails, the bright nail varnish now chipped and all but gone. "We went in, got rid of all the once-living creatures as quickly as possible, got rid of the not-living creature," at this, she looked wryly at her burned arm, "set the once-living creatures alight, ran, and once we got out of the caves, collapsed them. The End." She added. 

"What of Lord Teymuranz?" Dhugal spoke up, thinking that there was something missing in the tale. 

"Well, he certainly was not in there, and neither were any of his associates" Lizzie said as she stood up, not even noticing the astounded double-takes from the visitors, not even thinking it remarkable that she should know what Teymuranz and his friends should look like." 

"So it appears that it was most definitely two separate events in these mountains," Matyas mused. 

"Yes. So it would seem."   
  
  


Yevgen froze in place as they crossed the threshold, causing somewhat of a minor traffic jam. Kelson peered around the broad shoulders of his counterpart. He recognised everyone in the room – granted, some only barely – but one. 

A woman – several years his senior, but certainly not more than thirty – dressed in dark grey riding leathers, with a dark purple mantle draped over them in a deceptively artless fashion that he shrewdly guessed had originally taken upwards of an hour to achieve. The mantle was elaborately embroidered with slightly shimmering thread the exact shade of the mantle, giving it a sense of understated richness and sophistication. As for the woman herself –she had dark bronze hair with just a hint of copper, worn flowing down her back as a Gwyneddi maiden might, though as a concession to practicality the front and sides were arranged in a multitude of little braids and presumably caught at the back. A few days previous, Kelson might have thought of her as tall – but by the standards of the other female Imperial knights she was only slightly above average height, though there was a certain restrained strength about her, a sense of authority, though she was not particularly muscular. Quite the opposite, in fact – she was the only female Imperial they had met who came even remotely near to having curves. She was certainly handsome, Kelson could give her that, with refined, elegant features and a pair of very dark green eyes, framed with truly black lashes. 

But it was the manner in which everyone else treated her that gave Kelson the largest hint of who she was – certainly she gave no overt sign of it, the way her brother or her sister did, or even Kelson or Liam. If he had met her in less formal circumstances, he would have taken her for a skilled administrator, perhaps a Chancellor of a great kingdom. 

But certainly not the ruler of that great kingdom. She radiated authority, power, and sheer competence – but there was not that – for want of a better word – _spark_ that he had seen in all rulers – even questionable ones like Wencit of Torenth, or Caitrin of Meara. That spark – that charisma, that presence. Whatever it was, the Empress Rislyn Delmaran had nary a flicker, and in it was in its absence that it was most noticeable. 

"Rislyn!" Yevgen's surprise was not so much as hinted in voice and demeanour, as he crossed the room to greet his elder sister. "What do you do here?" 

"When I got your news," her voice was crisp, clear, no-nonsense. A voice for determining budgets, for arguing fine points of law, not one for glorious proclamations or grand pre-battle inspirational speeches. "I thought I'd come and lend a hand – though by the time I got here, it was quite apparent that you were all handling the matter very well by yourselves. Ah," she looked past her brother's shoulder, "Kelson of Gwynedd, I give you greeting. I have already had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of King Liam of Torenth." 

Kelson caught a glimpse of her back as she turned and walked in their direction – the neat plaits that restrained her hair at front and sides were caught at the back with a diamond-set clasp, the smallest of the five gems easily the size of his thumbnail, and clearer than mountain lakes.   
  


"Do not think that I am at all displeased at how things have turned out," the Empress accepted a tiny cup of strong black coffee with a nod. "As far as I am concerned, it is all for the best, and it is just as well that this event is not one that we can give its own entry into the historical annuls." 

Yevgen was frowning at the coffee cup, not the news that such a momentous event would not be given more than passing mention in the extensive historical archives. "Are you _sure_ you should be drinking that?" he asked critically. 

"Whyever not?" his sister raised an eyebrow as she raised her cup. "I haven't had one for over a year. Ishtar's practically weaned now, and, at any rate, I couldn't even do much beyond hiring a wet nurse even if she were not." 

"Rislyn, what happened that that bandit we sent back here for questioning?" Kay asked, prodding a slice of cake with a cake fork. 

"Ah yes. Well, he told quite an interesting tale. One of betrayal by relatives, alliance with enemies and miscellaneous treachery. Not to mention assorted complaints about the climate, the accommodations and the general scenery. He claimed he was well-born, but I saw no sign of any sort of refinement in either speech or demeanour." 

"Can we speak to him, then?" Dhugal leaned forward and spoke around a mouthful of lemon tart, not noticing the slight freeze around them. 

"No…" Empress Rislyn said after a slight pause, as she accepted a piece of raspberry shortcake, "I don't think he's _inclined_ to answer any further questions." He bit into the biscuit with an unexpected daintiness. "Among the various amusements of these temporary residents of your borders have been assorted murders, thefts, pillages, rapes, and making general nuisances of themselves." She finished the shortcake and wiped her fingertips on a napkin. "If I don't enforce the full weight of the law, no-one will. I'm not particularly fond of disturbances of the peace, and have even less regard to those who force their attentions unwanted upon others." Eyelashes raised momentarily. "You forget, little brother, I'm the Empress. _Laws_ I may – _must_ - enforce, but for me – and for you, should you chose it – guidelines, protocols, recommendations – are just that – suggestions. Those include the Imperial Protocol for the Protection of Human Rights."   
  
  


What had once been Sir Branislav Verdic had been staked out a little way from the grounds of the Palace proper, for reasons of hygiene, but he was still visible from the windows of the watchtowers. 

"You could, I suppose, see it as the logical extension of impaling," Odette was saying in a detached, almost academic tone. "Peeling things away instead of shoving them in." 

"You're quite calm about it," Liam commented beside her. He found the Empress Rislyn rather awe-inspiring, and ever-so-slightly intimidating, and, for once, had not disputed her decision to excuse both he and Odette from the more interesting goings-on. But that did not mean that they could not find places to watch. While the two teenagers had not been able to witness the actual questioning of his Uncle Teymuranz's crony, the end result was all too vividly played out beneath them as they scampered through corridors, galleries and towers to follow the action. True, his Uncle Mahael had been among the first that he had ordered impaled, but that did not mean that he had not ordered other, similarly unpleasant fates for criminals since. Flaying, however, and the subsequent pinning out on the exposed mountain face, had not occurred to him, though. 

"Shouldn't I be?" Odette looked at him, incredulous. "If I had issues with gore, I wouldn't be a knight." 

Something prickled in Liam's memory. "But Dama Radanae doesn't like it," he protested. 

"You think her problem is something she's always had?" Odette turned and leaned against the windowsill. "It's not. She spent the summer after her 9th or 10th year – yes, it must have been about the time I was about to start – at the Academy hunting pirates in the shipping lanes with my mother." She paused. "Ris takes after my mother quite a bit, personality-wise – more than she took after Aunt Vanaria, even though she is more like my aunt in looks. As you may imagine, a summer with my mother serving out summary justice is enough to give anyone a distaste for extended punishment. We're a very highly developed civilisation, Liam. We have universal literacy, a largely functioning legal system, an organised infrastructure. We have running water and impressive architecture and a generally relaxed attitude to others. That doesn't make us civilised. Under all the elaborate trappings, we're really not all that different from the crudest little herd of barbarians anywhere in this great wide world." She paused, then answered the question that was burning in Liam's eyes. "A hundred tiny cuts on face and body, each too small to draw much blood, then crucifixion in the harbour at low tide, so that the watermark at high tide reached half an inch above one's nostrils. My mother's not a nice person. Neither is Rislyn. Nor am I."   


_Note: Rislyn looks a bit like Sophia Loren, but gives off the vibes of a very good accountant, with much less charisma. Even Radanae has more charisma than Rislyn – and that is really saying something.___

_As for her hair-clasp, imagine five perfect diamond solitaires, two of about 10 carats, two of about 15, one of about 25, with the largest in the middle, and the smaller ones on the outside. Yes, the Delmarans do own a diamond mine. Several, in fact. And the miners are very well treated.___

_I'm not sure how long babies need to be nursed, but I imagine that most female knights have milk for six months, tops, and then either wean the children or hire wet-nurses._   
__   
__   
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	22. A Dream Realised

Resolution: Part the Second, or A Dream Realised   
  
"Of course it leaves the problem of Lord Teymuranz," Rislyn was saying crisply, "but I think that in that at least may be resolved by conventional means. I am very pleased with the manner in which you have handled the non-conventional emergency." her nod appeared to be intended for her subordinates and vassals, but somehow Kelson felt somewhat flattered by her praise, sparing as it was.   
  
They were outside in the garden, enjoying it for the first time now that the more pressing concern had been dealt with.   
  
"How is Ishtar?" Lizzie remembered to ask, folding up her bandage neatly for discard after Kalasin had worked a healing-spell on the burns.   
  
"As well as one might expect," Rislyn replied, in a casual, almost disinterested fashion. "She is as healthy as any infant, as communicative as any infant, and, of course, as bothersome as any infant."  
  
Kalasin knew very well by now that what the fustier conservatives in Tortall so condescendingly referred to as 'maternal instinct' was by no means universal in the Empire, any more than it was anywhere else. Most of the knights she knew didn't have particularly good relationships with their parents, the few that did were those who based the relation on another level. Mentor to protégé, older friend to younger, but rarely from parent to child. It was probably the natural result of children from noble families spending very little time with those families, one she wasn't sure she completely approved of. She could never imagine even pretending to be as dismissive about Lillias as Rislyn appeared to be of her own daughter.   
  
Her attention snapped back to the present as her sister-in-law continued.   
  
"I see now that my presence is unnecessary. If you would all excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I think that I should be on my way. I have already conveyed what news I can give to Dama Noor, but if my brother would be so kind as to accompany me?"   
  
It wasn't really a question.   
  
  
  
  
"I am pleased at how you've gone, never mistake that," Rislyn said as they moved out of earshot, towards the large library that so many people who could Gate used that Yevgen was starting to consider whether he should be moving the books out altogether. "Not just these last few days and weeks – these few years, too."  
  
"So this is just a friendly family chat?" his tone was just short of being suspicious. "Like the sort you have with Kay?"  
  
Rislyn laughed – a sound far less common even than most supposed – "I do see Kay a good deal more often than I see you, Yevgen, and for good or for bad, you are my brother. No, I'm genuinely impressed, not just as sister, but as Empress, overlady, and equal." She let the word hang momentarily in the air between them.  
  
"Equal?" the tone was definitely doubtful now.  
  
"Oh, not for all of it, just old Sarain," she produced a parchment from a pouch at her side. "Old Sarain – the part from the western base of the Roof, to the Inland Sea, to the northern base of the K'mir mountains, to wherever your border with Maren is. No longer client-kingdom, but Friend and Ally of the Empire. We would request your friendship and your alliance, King Yevgen, but we would not command your fealty." Then she smiled. "Of course, you will still owe me fealty for the governorships of the provinces on the eastern side of the Roof, part of your kingdom which are not severable from the western parts, but that is a matter neither here nor there."   
  
Yevgen could not but hold back a tiny grin, as he took the document, both at her swift, intentional, shifting from the singular to the royal plural and back again, and the elegant, efficient manner in which she had managed the more complex ramifications. Part of it was to remove him – and any children of his - forever from any possibility of the Diadem. Even if the rule about inheritance through the male line were ever relaxed, not even the most liberal of powerbrokers was going to place the Diadem upon the brow of a foreign dynasty from beyond the back of beyond. It would also cut her infrastructure costs – for Yevgen knew very well that the amounts that he was drawing from the Imperial Treasury for the construction of roads, of aqueducts, of hospitals and schools in western Sarain far outstripped the tax revenues he had sent to Bersone – money that Kalasin and he now would have to raise in Sarain itself. But apart from that, there was no way in which he could in all honesty refuse – for he very much fancied that despite the adoration in which the populace held Kalasin, and the respect they held for him, for her sake – if he refused the offer, he would not survive much beyond the news being broken. Yet, she had also managed to retain control of him, through the provinces of the Empire's western edge, provinces that were under his domain and hers.   
  
Rislyn arched an eyebrow, a mannerism almost identical to his, as she watched him closely. "There are games being played in the capital," she said softly, seriously. "Deep games, and ones I disapprove heartily of – they're _so_ distracting."  
  
"So you're changing the rules,"  
  
"Oh, there never _were_ any rules, brother mine," Rislyn said calmly, "but I am controlling the board in a manner in which the other players will not notice until I win."  
  
The moment's pause seemed to go on for an eternity.   
  
"What did you give Noor?"  
  
"What I promised her before all this began, when all I asked of her was a simple diplomatic mission. What should have come to al-Jedin a generation before, had Mama ever got around to it. House-founding rights. Name rights. Lands, a permanent place at court, places at the Academy. She deserves it." Another pause. "And now that we're alone, what _have_ you done to your hair?"   
  
Whatever Yevgen was about to say next was interrupted by startled shouts and the sounds of breaking glass and drawn steel. All thought of leaving gone, Rislyn barely hesitated before dropping her mantle to the ground and sprinting towards the garden they had just left. Yevgen trailed slightly after her, but gained as after they leapt down the stairs.   
  
  
  
Afterwards, Kalasin could barely recall what message had brought her away from the party – something innocuous, about the rearrangement of the infirmary, or something like that. Whatever the reason, she was just out of sight of the garden when one of their own garrison soldiers leapt out at her with drawn sword, clearly bent of doing her some great harm.   
  
However surprised Kalasin was, she fancied that he might have been somewhat more shocked as she blocked his downward stroke with the long dagger that she was in the habit of carrying up her sleeve, in the fashion of an Imperial diplomat (obviously, not when they were wearing their togas, though, which had originally developed as a sort of signal that the wearer was unarmed).   
  
She was, however, quite clearly not out of hearing of the others in the garden, for even her cry of shock, not even particularly loud, brought commotion and the others into the corridor. The man looked at them in shock and recognition, and it was then that Kalasin's suspicions were confirmed. Though she had never met him before, the man now who faced her over their crossed blades was the Lord Teymuranz, uncle of King Liam.   
  
A panicked, desperate look passed over his face, as he drew back slightly, and swung his sword at her again, his movements erratic but swift, making it equally difficult for Kalasin to block with her dagger as it was for one of the others, more skilled in the practicalities of combat, to try and intervene.   
  
More commotion behind her as she heard others arrive, but that she took no heed, save the sound of an arm being grabbed and Rislyn hissing, "No, you fool, you'll only get in her way and leave him a clear path to both of you," followed by some truly un-vassal like language in a lowered male voice, only distantly recognisable as Yevgen's.   
  
Then…there…an opening, as Teymuranz disengaged and swung at her once more. An opening, at the vulnerable place where arm and body met, where even the best armour that they supplied their soldiers was weakest. For just the barest fraction of a second…the barest fraction that was all that Kalasin needed, as she rammed the blade deep into his armpit, and then hurriedly leapt away from the falling, flailing body, only just comprehending that it was Yevgen who caught hold of her and held her close.   
  
He was shaking.   
  
"I take it that he was known to you," Kalasin looked up, and behind her, to see Rislyn turning the body over in a very professional manner, and addressing their northern visitors. Somehow it shocked her, but she knew that it should not. For all that she had previously only seen her sister-in-law as sophisticated, refined princess and Empress, first, and foremost, like her kin and forebears, Rislyn was a knight, a warrior, well used to bloodshed and violence.   
  
"He is my brother," Matyas said softly, as he came to kneel beside the fallen body of Teymuranz, and with gentle hand, close the staring eyes. He looked away as Rislyn took the hilt of the dagger, and pulled in out in a single fluid motion, wiped it on a handkerchief that she kept up her sleeve (an unmistakable sign, Radanae Gavrillian remarked later, that one has finally fallen into motherhood), and, reversing it came over and offered it back to Kalasin. "A fine blade," the Empress intoned, "and a serviceable one, well worthy of a Queen. Well worthy of a knight, if she should desire it."   
  
Silence hung between them.   
  
"Once we offered for courtesy. Twice we offered for duty. But now thrice we do now offer in respect and honour for the name of Kalasin of Conté to be forever upon the Knight's Roll." Rislyn had a talent for making even the most archaic language seem…well, if not completely natural, at least not any more artificial than any other part of her speech. Rislyn the Wise would never be one to inspire false closeness where there was none.   
  
  
  
Though, for the rest of her days, Kalasin would never admit it, the actual event of her knighting, something she had yearned for and afterwards bitterly resented for so many years of her life, was, if anything rather disappointing. Nothing more than a blow from a sword, and investure with the white belt that had for so long been a lost dream. The only interesting note had been how quickly said belt, and a magnificent sword – beautifully acid-etched and set with a great sapphire in her hilt – had materialised in the hands of her husband, once he had ascertained that she was, physically, at least, in good shape. Afterwards, Dama Kalasin would let her fingers wander over the exquisite, delicate embroidery of the white belt – all but invisible, white thread on white leather – and marvel at how a lost dream could once again come alive.  
  



	23. Many Partings

Many Partings (yes, stolen from Tolkien)

_I loved TTT, no matter about Aragorn-cliff thing and evil-Faramir, only wish I had thought to put immortal-twist into some of the families in these stories. Oh well, *shrugs* Kay looks like Galadriel, Saro looks like Aragorn, and Yevgen moves the same way as Legolas and **can** look like him given a couple of hours in the bathroom…that will have to do.___

_I will not write about the party itself. You can imagine it from the aftermath._   
  


"It has gone so quickly," Lianne mused as she packed, several days later. 

"Are you sorry?" Kalasin raised an eyebrow, "You've barely arrived, and now you're back home again, at the insistence of Buri and Master Numair." 

"I'm not going back to Tortall, Kally," Lianne looked up from folding her clothes. "Not for a long time. I've lived a dutiful life too long, bartered off whenever a political alliance looms. I'm going to live for myself for a while. I'll be travelling east into the Empire proper with a few of the others – Radanae, Noor, Lizzie and Odette." 

"..and Kelvar?" Kally asked, but already knowing the answer. 

"And Kelvar." Lianne's voice had a definite challenging note to it. 

"Have fun then," Kalasin said lightly, enjoying the look of disappointed indignation on her sister's face. "Bersone really is beautiful – but do pack a warm pair of slippers – they've got this unnerving fascination with marble floors." 

Lianne humped. "Where is everyone this morning?" she asked. "They can't _all_ be sleeping off the farewell party last night."   
  


"Oh, Good Morning, Lord Rasoul," Odette rolled over with a whisper of sheets and propped her chin up on her hands. 

The Deryni adept did a very credible impression of a landed fish, garbled something and then slammed the door. Odette looked at the closed door for barely a second before turning back over and giving the sheet-shrouded form beside her a rather undignified shove. 

"Get up Liam," she said impatiently, "I'd like to get dressed, if you don't mind." 

The King of Torenth sat up abruptly, and blinked several times in consternation. "Odette?" 

"I would certainly hope that's my name," she snapped, sliding out of the bed now that the sheets had loosed sufficiently, and then groping around for her clothes, tossed in a most random manner around the bedchamber earlier in the morning. 

"Odette, I'm, I…" Liam stammered, the memories flooding back, just as blood rushed to his face. 

"You're what?" she challenged, pulling the long sleeveless dress she had worn the previous evening over her head and then sitting on the ground to lace up her shoes. "A loud snorer, for a start," she grumbled, getting up off the floor and making to leave. 

"Odette, wait," Liam cried as she opened the door. 

His only answer was the dull slam as she departed.   
  
  


"I think I finally understand where the prohibition of alcohol came from," Noor groaned as she leaned out of the bed, then, feeling queasy, untangled herself from the sheets, waking her companion in the process. 

Dhugal McArdry McLain stared, wide eyed, though it was unclear whether it was in shock or disbelief. He flung aside the sheet and had a very hard look at the surroundings. 

"What happened?" he moaned, but, as soon as the words left his mouth, knew it was precisely the wrong thing to say. 

His only answer was a glare as Noor gathered up her clothes and swept from the room. 

He fell back on the pillows, confusion crossing his features, and then a self-satisfied grin. "Well, there go any chances of holy quests."   
  
  


"_One_ of these days, we have got to do this when we're sober," Radanae observed matter-of-factly as she too woke up that morning, but unlike Odette or Noor, she did not immediately leave the comfort of the bed. For a start, it was her bedroom after all – and she had known her bedmate for somewhat more than a few days. 

"Yes, we must," Saro agreed with her sleepily as he propped himself up on his elbows. "It would be interesting." 

They could hear the commotion dimly through the thick walls, and out in the courtyard below. Preparations for the departure of the guests and helpers who had eventually proved unnecessary, and also for the Imperial forces. 

Radanae made a little noise of discontent as she reached down for her clothes, then, giving up, got out of bed and to the wardrobe to rummage for clean clothes in readiness for the bathhouse. As she made to leave, and as Saro got up to collect his things, he said softly. "'Danae…last night…I wasn't drunk, you know." 

Radanae turned to him and gave a small, unreadable smile. "Neither was I."   
  


Yevgen had been up for hours already, breakfasting early with Kalasin, spending some time with the determinedly unflappable Lillias, and then overseeing the preparations for their own departure for the capital in the lowlands. He made a mental note to arrange for the expansion and re-stocking of the wine cellar as soon as possible. Even without catering for the specialist-legion (few of whom drank while on duty anyway), the larger-than-expected parties of guests had put a substantial dent in the best vintages. He was making some last-minute arrangements with Callum regarding the transport of his arms when he caught sight of King Kelson in the garden pavilion where they had first met, leaning against a pillar, looking pensive. 

"A lovely pavilion, Yevgen," Kelson said before turning around, "I never had a chance to compliment her Majesty on its beauty," 

"I thank you," Yevgen said diplomatically, not mentioning that it was in fact _he_ who oversaw the construction of the Summer Palace, and _he_ who had designed the mosaics and frescos. "I shall pass on your regards," 

Kelson nodded, then came a slight pause as Yevgen stepped up into the pavilion itself. They were much of height and build – Yevgen having the slight advantage - dark and fair, like opposites facing across an invisible chasm. "You are fortunate," Kelson said, at last, "in such a gracious Queen." 

Yevgen forced himself to limit his reply to a very slight incline of his head. 

"I regret that circumstances dictated a necessarily short meeting with her Majesty the Empress," Kelson began again, tension between them growing as it would have done from the first had there not been other issues to deal with. 

"She is of course attentive to relations with all realms which border her own," Yevgen said non-commitally, as he sat down on one of the benches built into the gaps between the pillars. It wasn't particularly host-like to continue the staring game with one's guests, after all. Rislyn, of course, as her wont, had again made her farewells and departed as soon as it was apparent that her presence was not required. Yevgen the King thought it was her way of showing that she would not intervene in the affairs of Sarain that did not concern the Empire proper. Yevgen the brat of a younger brother knew that despite her protestations, the Empress desired to return to home and family, to daughter and irritatingly even-tempered husband. 

"I would not have thought otherwise," Kelson made an answering incline of his head. 

"Oh, here comes Lord Rasoul," Yevgen changed the subject swiftly as he leaned around the bench, to watch the Moorish nobleman stride out into the garden, distraction clear in his step and in his features, to pace in a seriously displeased manner. Whatever the source of his consternation, it was certainly not his niece, who walked boldly past the open corridor from the guest wing assigned to those from the Eleven Kingdoms to the rest of the Palace, dressed in wrinkled long tunic and carrying an equally wrinkled mantle, both of which she had worn the previous evening, as Lord Rasoul made quite visible expressions of shock and disapproval. 

"I say…" Kelson trailed off, a little taken aback but not entirely surprised, considering the state that Dhugal and the R'Kassi noblewoman had been when he had departed the dining hall, and the giggling he had heard in the outer reception room in the early hours of the morning. He supposed it was too much to hope that it had only been the Duchess Richenda over-indulging away from her children. His foster-brother, was, despite being the son of a Bishop, a man after all, and the rules governing relations between the sexes did not seem quite the same as they were back home. However, that didn't stop the very faint feeling of envy stirring at the pit of his stomach…   
  


"Odette!" the voice was clear, penetrating. Odette looked up to see her cousin Yelizabeta bearing down on her. "Where have you been? We're leaving ten minutes ago. I hope that you're packed." 

Odette gaped at the older woman. 

"Oh, surely you knew?" Lizzie paused for a second, "oh, no perhaps not. You've been trailing along with that boy for the last few days. A pleasant enough distraction, I grant you, but a distraction all the same. It was a holiday fling, no more, Odette. It's time to go back to the real world. Our world." 

"But, but…" Odette spluttered. "I thought…" 

"You thought what?" Lizzie raised an eyebrow (it was a family characteristic), challenging. "How else could it end, 'detta? You've far too much potential to be permitted to fritter away your life mouldering away with a barbarian King. The games are over, cousin. Go, speak to him, write to him, even attempt to be assigned to embassies to his land when you are of age – but romantic fantasies have no place in the life of a knight or a princess." She paused momentarily, "I'll see you in the courtyard with your things." 

After her kinswoman left, Odette stayed in place for a second, not entirely sure what had just happened, but then, with steady step and without so much as a glance backward went to the family rooms to collect her things. Lizzie, brutal as she had been, was right. It had never been more than childish imaginings, of things that never were to be. Even if Liam _was_ rather cute…   
  


After putting a few smaller clues together (and most definitely after an amused Lizzie, and then a slightly preoccupied Odette had crossed his path) Yevgen was not at all surprised, on arriving at his study after a migraine-inducing conversation with Kelson Haldane, to find a slightly nervous Liam Furstan waiting for him. 

"Good Morning, Liam," Yevgen greeted his younger neighbour cheerfully, shutting the door, "Much as I regretted the circumstances of your visit, I regret still more that we must part." Trite stuff, but the young King of Torenth appeared not to notice. 

"Majesty…" Liam trailed off, and then began again, "Yevgen, forgive me, I am not so familiar with the ways of your people as I should like, but…" he swallowed audibly, "…I should like to askforthehandofyourcousininmarriage." The last few words tumbled together, most uncharacteristic for the usually articulate young king. 

Had Yevgen not already had advance warning of such an event, he might have laughed aloud. As it was, he had sufficient difficulty holding back a small smile at the discomfited teenager. "Wine?" he asked, surprising Liam. 

The King of Torenth shook his head, still uncomfortable. 

"This is regarding Odette, I assume," Yevgen said lightly, sitting gracefully on the large leather-upholstered armchair, deliberately drawing out the moment. 

"You know it is," Liam said tightly. 

Yevgen allowed himself a small shake of the head, an amused smile, "Majesty, what makes you think that I would have the power to grant your request? I am but the lady's cousin – male cousin, at that. If consent is what you wish, perhaps you would be better advised to consult with the Empress, the lady's mother, or, better yet, the lady herself." 

Liam opened his mouth, but then shut it as Yevgen continued. 

"But even so, it would not be relevant. How old do you think Odette is?" Yevgen asked, knowing full well that Liam, if he had been paying attention, knew perfectly well. 

"Fourteen." It was said almost defiantly. 

"No, not until after Midsummer," Yevgen corrected quietly. "Though that makes little difference. It will be more than five years before she is of marriageable age by our laws, more than ten beyond that by our customs. Will your councillors permit you to wait that long without a consort, my lord of Torenth?" 

Liam knew that they would not. A year, two years, five at most he could delay, but no more. Certainly not the… 

"Fifteen _years_?" he said incredulously, staring at his southern neighbour. But…that would mean that Yevgen, married three years according to the reports of the spies would be more than twice Liam's age, instead of the bare decade of seniority that Liam had supposed. 

Yevgen evidently caught his look. "The custom for ladies of the Imperial House, not princes," he corrected, "but I wed young even by that standard." 

"But…" Liam trailed off, confused. More than ever he regretted not having a more extensive network of spies. "The Queen Consort of Maren is an Imperial knight," he offered, not sure where that would take him. 

"Yes, Dama Natseyah Q'ok," Yevgen confirmed, not at all ruffled by the outburst. "But Queen Natseyah is not a daughter of the Imperial House. Her children will never have claim to the Diadem. Odette's will." 

The words hovered between them in the air. 

"No daughter of the Imperial House leaves the Empire, my lord of Torenth," Yevgen got up, decisively, reminding Liam of the height difference between them. "No son either," he added, "they bring Consorts and territory into it. Would you be willing to leave your people, Majesty? Would you be prepared to see the triple-headed Eagles of the Empire over your cities?" 

Liam's silence was all the answer necessary. 

"A princess," Yevgen continued clearly, "with Odette's gifts, her talents, her potential, is not a prize to be given to an ally, no matter how well-respected he may be, nor is her body a bribe. Do not ask me for something I would not give even were it in my power to do so, Liam of Torenth." 

"But I've sullied her!" Liam blurted at last, then stilled his tongue when he saw the look, somewhat precariously balanced between perplexion and amusement on the older man's face. 

"How? By having sex?" It was the matter-of-fact tone more than the frank words that sent the red flaring across Liam's cheeks. "Liam, we're Imperials. We're not _like_ you of the Eleven Kingdoms." 

That could not be more clear. _We're civilised_, Liam heard the undertone, though it was never openly expressed, _you're not even fit to scrape my cousin's boots_. 

"…had she been unwilling last evening, or indeed, this morning, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You'd be dead." He paused for a second. "In the Empire, we, all of us – male and female – are free to enjoy the company of whomever we desire, without all the restrictions that seem to so plague you in the north. Odette is starting a little younger that her cousins are comfortable with, to be sure, but she's old enough to know her own mind. It's over, my lord of Torenth. It was never more than a dream of a summer never meant to last until the leaves fell. She leaves presently." 

Liam couldn't help but feel that the pun was deliberate. Looking past Yevgen, out the tall, narrow windows that lead to the courtyard, he could see the commotion as the various parties made their preparations for departure. A composed-looking Odette was sitting patiently upon a blue roan riding horse, waiting as a guard formed up around her. At an unseen signal, she nudged her horse into a trot, out the gate and onto the road east. 

She didn't look back.   
  


Afterwards, when the dust had settled, and no trace of their guests remained but flattened grass in the camping field and seriously depleted storerooms, the King of Sarain turned to his Queen as she came up beside him, their daughter in her arms. 

"Are you ready to go back south?" he asked her, knowing that she wanted to as much as he. 

"Yes," she replied, as behind them the last of those to depart this mountain retreat scrambled over last-minute arrangements. "It's time to go home." 

So they did. 

And they all lived happily ever after, until the end of their days. 

The reign of Empress Rislyn the Wise, called Rislyn Silver-tongue, and (behind her back) Rislyn the Icicle, was long, prosperous, peaceful, and, well, rather boring. There were no major wars, no dangerous in-palace factional brawling, no scandal, no rebellions, no uprisings, no disturbances whatsoever that were of any note in the records of the Imperial Archives. The highlight of her reign was the introduction of a new tax system, and the reform of laws relating to the governance of provincial treasuries. But for whatever her perceived shortcomings, the reign of Silver-tongue nonetheless gave a solid foundation to the reigns of Ishtar the Great and Berenice VII, called 'Gloriana', and the grand third Golden Age of the Empire – which would not have been possible without the foresight of the Empress Rislyn. 

Rislyn, was, of course, fortunate in both friends and family, most especially her younger sister Berenice Sword-bearer, who kept the peace at the furthest reaches of the Empire and at its heart. During Rislyn's reign the Sword-bearer was more loved, and more renowned than the Empress herself, but neither sister showed any sign of discomfiture at the turn of events. Berenice's loyalty to Rislyn was unquestioned, as was Rislyn's fondness for her younger sister. Berenice was assassinated, together with her aide Felera Eriel and secretary Rosgrana Feuerin, in her favourite northern fortress. The other chief aide of her youth, Justinia Ferox, had then left her service to become the first female Field Commander, the highest post in the Imperial Army. Berenice left no children or lover, but the list of bequests, both small and large, for all her former lovers, male and female, took up several pages of her will. The justice meted out after her death by the Diadem was both swift and devastating in its brutality. 

And of the Empress's brother and his wife, who ruled quite happily beyond the western borders of the Empire for more than three decades? Things there were as peaceful, and as smooth as the running of any kingdom in the wilds. They maintained good relations with all their neighbours, with only the very occasional difficulty, easily resolved. However, in the end, it was not battle, nor an assassin's blade, nor even sickness that ended their reign. Nothing more than a simple accident, as the Queen rode out one morning in the mountains near the capital. A little thing, her horse simply losing its footing on the mountain path that they had travelled so many times before, and tumbling down the rocks, taking the Queen with it. 

She hovered, Kalasin Dawn-bringer, between life and death for several days once they brought her back to the Palace. They say that the very heavens wept those days, cold rain drenching the land as a growing crowd kept vigil outside the Palace, praying for the Queen's recovery. It was not to be, for she who had brought new life, new hope to Sarain gave up her own one grey dawn. They say that her husband, Yevgen the Golden, killed himself rather than live without her, that in the darkness of the last night, when there was no hope, he sent away their attendants, the healers and stayed with her in the stillness of their chambers, waiting for the dull dawn that neither of them would see. Some say he took poison that night, still others say that he fell upon his sword or opened his wrists, but those few who were there when the door opened the next dawn, upon the arrival of their three children, knew that it was none of those. 

Whispered through the streets of the city, through fields, and mountains, forests and plains came the news, that the king had died of grief – for there was no poison found in that chamber, where sword and dagger blade were clean and unsullied. There was, in all minds, no other explanation, for the king had not been riding that fateful morning, and had been in the very peak of health, looking, in his middle age, very much as he had in his prime. 

After their deaths, their elder daughter, Lillias, became Queen of Sarain, and her reign, long and prosperous as it was, had its own share of marvels. 

**THE END**

_Notes:___

_1. Of course Rislyn fiddled with the records._   
_2. If people didn't pick it up earlier, yes, Kay is bi – it's just that I've only really written about her on-duty life, and that so of thing is considered unprofessional, especially for a commander._   
_3. Mercy isn't an Imperial virtue._   
  



End file.
